The Risk-Reward Ratio
by MissiAmphetamine
Summary: Set during TDH; a maimed, disillusioned Draco surrenders himself to the Order after he earns Voldemort's displeasure. Hermione's pity for him blooms into something more and he stops seeing her as just a mudblood, as they both discover there's far more to each other than they ever thought possible. Angst, smut, FEELS. Image courtesy of ohmygoditsnikkie. Facebook: /theriskrewardratio
1. Prologue: Of Monsters and Men

_Disclaimer: _Harry Potter is J.K. Rowling's sandbox – I'm just playing in it. I do not own the characters or the 'verse, and I make no profit from this fic, save the warm fuzzies that reviews give me. Etc, etc, and so on…please don't sue me, I'm broke anyway.

_Author's Note: _This chapter has been edited since it was first posted, to excise parts I felt were unnecessary bulk, and cull it right back so only the _juicy_ meat of the chapter remains. Chapter title is the name of a wonderful Icelandic band. Now onwards; to the torture we go!

_Enjoy!_

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_**Prologue: Of Monsters and Men**_

Bellatrix was like a witch from a Muggle child's nightmare. She hung over Hermione leering, crying, "_Crucio!_" again and again with mad, desperate glee.

It was like nothing…ever. Hermione couldn't think while it was happening, couldn't breath; all she could do was scream until her throat gave out. She understood why Neville's parents had gone mad, and wondered if she would – _when_ she would. Everything hurt. It was indescribable. From the first she wished for death. It would have been preferable – anything but this. Anything. If it would only stop. And then it would stop, and Bellatrix would bare another bit of flesh to carve with her blade. Hermione wept helplessly, her dignity stripped from her by the pain. Even the searing burn of having her skin sliced into by Bellatrix was a blessed relief compared to the horror of the _cruciatus_ curse.

Faint yells drifted to her ears whenever she fell silent; Ron, screaming her name impotently, each helpless invocation of her name cutting into her like Bellatrix's blade. She tried not to listen and looked anywhere but at Bella's insane smile. Narcissa came into view now and then, a pale worried face hovering in the periphery of Hermione's blurred vision. Lucius stood closer, his haggard face distorted by Hermione's veil of tears, his eyes turning between his worried wife and his sister-in-law's current amusement. Hermione. She shrieked and felt her throat tear as Bellatrix giggled, "Mudblood. Now everyone who sees you will know what you are." Such happiness in Bellatrix's voice, such pure joy. The witch was barking mad.

Hermione choked and sobbed, coughing up blood and snot. She lay there between rounds of _cruciatus_ and fixed all her focus on one thing. The person she hated most in the room. Draco Malfoy. He was so tall now; he loomed above her, standing close to Bellatrix as the mad witch had insisted he do. Bella thought Draco enjoyed watching Hermione be tortured, but Hermione could see better, even through her haze of pain. He was terrified and sickened, his ferret-pointed features paler than usual. His grey eyes never met Hermione's, avoiding them, lingering instead on the mutilation his aunt was inflicting. And that made her hate him more than anyone else _ever_. He knew it was wrong – and he still didn't help her. The others, they were just pure evil – and you couldn't hate evil people in the same way you could hate good people that did evil things. Although Hermione didn't believe Draco had ever been _good_ as such, he still wasn't evil in the way his father and Bellatrix were.

"Draco," she croaked for the hundredth time and his pressed tight lips twitched, his broad skinny shoulders hunched further up around his ears and his wand hand twitched almost as though he wanted to do something.

"Please!" Hermione begged him and he heard her and did nothing. Bellatrix laughed, awful screeching sounds and cried,

"_Crucio! Crucio! CRUCIO!_"

Hermione screamed and screamed and screamed. And when her body finally went limp she stared at Draco, willing him to listen to her.

"Draco. Draco I beg you. Draco, _please_…" She felt as though she was debasing herself for him, and she no longer cared at all.

"The mudblood wants you, Draco. What does the mudblood think you can give her? Death maybe…or something else? Hah, yes…something else, maybe? Come on love, ask her," Bella cooed and Draco shot a hunted look at his aunt and shuffled slowly forward. Hermione felt sick as she realised what Bellatrix was insinuating, and another level of fear washed over her.

Bella prodded him, and Draco looked at Hermione – at her half-exposed chest with the words 'mudblood', 'scum', and 'whore' scrawled bloody above her simple white cotton bra.

"What do you want?" The words were barely audible, a dull low murmur. Hermione stared at his platinum blonde head as though she could burn a hole through his skull.

"Draco. Draco. We were at school together. I thought I knew you. You're not like this. You're not this person. Please. I never thought… Please, Draco. Help me," she begged him incoherently and his eyes finally met with hers. Anguish and shame marred his perfect features – so perfect. No blood or snot or tears on Draco's face. Only Hermione's.

_Mudblood_.

She sobbed, half-disgusted with herself for begging but unable to stop herself.

"Please! Please Draco…just do it, kill me. Please."

He flinched and his grey eyes swam glinting silver with tears and Hermione _hated_ him. He didn't have the _right_ to be upset over this when she was the one being ripped apart. How dare he?

"I – I…" Draco shook his head and backed off a step, shining grey eyes still fixed with Hermione's bloodshot brown.

"Please! _Please_, Draco! I'm begging you _please_ just kill me. Just kill me. _Please_." The words tumbled out of her in a rushing tumbling sob, putting every ounce of emotion that she had left into pleading with the boy she had always despised. Trying desperately to convince him to end her life. Even dazed and in agony as she was, Hermione could see the irony in it. Draco whimpered – actually whimpered, and stumbled back shaking his head, horror printed all over his face. Horrified by his inability, Hermione thought hazily. Because he looked as though he cared, in some sick, cowardly sort of way. He cared but he was too damn cowardly to do anything. She _despised_ him.

"_I hate you! I hate you! I –_" Hermione's feet drummed against the floor as she fought the spell that kept her immobile and spittle flew from her bloodied lips as she roared the words at Draco, who only crumpled in on himself even more. Hermione's maddened shrieks were only cut short, as Bellatrix grew bored with the show and shouted,"_Crucio!_"

And Hermione screamed without words, animalistic and awful as Draco watched, trembling.

When Harry and Ron came charging stupidly – bravely – out to rescue Hermione, she was drifting in and out of consciousness. Chaos erupted around her in a split second and Hermione came back to herself slowly, the spell Bella had cast on her keeping her spreadeagled on the floor as Harry took on Bellatrix, and Ron attacked Lucius Malfoy.

"Hang on, Hermione!" Harry sounded like Sirius, Hermione thought to herself, so cocksure and reckless, no thought of failure entering his mind. Relief flooded her limbs and gave her a rush of energy and she struggled against the hex that pinned her like a helpless beetle to the marble floor of the Malfoy Manor. Nothing happened. A sob choked from her aching throat. She had to get free and get to her wand, two metres away and dropped carelessly on the floor by Bellatrix as she'd spun to face Harry.

Bella and Harry were flinging curses back and forth madly, and Hermione decided then and there that they had to start using spells stronger than _expelliamus _and_ stupefy_. Voldemort's right-hand woman was using two of the Unforgiveables' and any number of dark spells that were designed purely to maim and rend flesh and psyche. Harry wasn't going to be able to sustain the frenetic level of duelling Bellatrix was engaging in for very much longer if he kept only using defensive or immobilising spells. If he got a hit in Bellatrix would be stunned or wandless – if she hit Harry, however, he'd be dead or in an enormous amount of pain. Head surprisingly clear in the aftermath of her torture, Hermione resolved to stop being noble and good when it came to fighting the Death Eaters, bitterness seeping through her and leaching strength into her bones.

Ron, surprisingly, was holding up well against Lucius – Hermione would never have expected it from him but he was casting not mere stun and disarming spells, but spells to hurt and injure if not actually kill. She felt a little touch of warmth and worry – it was because of her that Ron was fighting so ferociously, and Hermione hoped that if he killed Lucius he wouldn't feel too bad about it. None of them had ever killed before, and Hermione guessed the first time always had to be difficult.

She redirected her dazed and skittering attention to her immediate situation, hoping that with Bellatrix distracted the spell would falter and Hermione would be able to break free of her invisible bonds. But no such luck. She swore and sobbed and struggled weakly, blood loss making her head swim. It seemed like hours but it could only have been several minutes at most since Ron and Harry had broken into the hall, when a face appeared above her.

Draco Malfoy.

Hermione shrank in on herself and was suddenly, acutely, aware of her half-nakedness; the damp patch on her jeans from wetting herself during a _crucio_, the slurs scribed into her pale skin, the runny snot drying beneath her nose. She was filthy and disgusting and helpless and if he wanted he could do…anything… Her mind shied away from the possibilities and she blanked out, not thinking straight.

"Don't." She whimpered and he flinched at the implied accusation.

"Draco!" A hoarse, low cry drifted across to the pair of them and the blonde glanced back over his shoulder toward the hushed female voice.

"Draco! Grab the Mudblood and hurry!"

"Go mother! I'll follow behind!" He hissed back loudly, flapping his wand hand as though to shoo Narcissa away. Even in her terror Hermione found herself capable of despising Malfoy for his cowardliness. Draco looked back down at Hermione, face unreadable, and raised his wand.

Hermione shut her eyes tight for a moment, steeling herself for whatever it was Draco was going to do – terrified that he was going to do what his family wanted and spirit her away to a place where the torture could continue. Anything but that.

"_Releshio_," he whispered under his breath and Hermione opened her eyes in time to see Draco finish the complex little wand flick that accompanied the releasing spell. Her mind was reeling as she repeated in her head, _Releshio? But?_ And she moved her arms and realised she really was free. Draco Malfoy appeared to have freed her…what in Merlin's name…?

"Draco?" Hermione's voice broke as she queried what was going on, and she realised that today was the first time that she had ever addressed him by his first name. She sat up with a moan, watching him with darkly suspicious eyes and tugging at the shreds of her shirt ineffectively.

"_Accio _Hermione's wand." He gave it to her as soon as it had settled in his large hand, pressing it into her smaller one with a strangely pained expression. Hermione guessed neither Malfoy's family nor Voldemort would be very happy with him for 'letting' her escape.

"Get out of here, Hermione, quickly. The – the Dark Lord will be here soon." Another jolt, as Hermione's slow brain realised _he_ had just called her by her first name for the first time as well. It made her angry, somehow, and with wand now in hand she was brave enough to show it.

"Not _Mudblood_, then?" She lifted her chin defiantly and indicated the sluggishly bleeding word where it was cut into the skin of her chest, and again on one arm and on her stomach. It was as though she had struck him – his cheeks flushed hot red and he reared back, stumbling to his feet. His shoulders hunched like they had when she had been begging him for help earlier, like an indicator of his shame. He ignored her comment.

"Get out of here, Granger, and take Potty and the Weasel before my father and _darling_ Aunt Bella kill them."

She spared a glance for Harry and Ron, both still holding their own, if only barely. How in the hell was she supposed to help?

She staggered upright and stood swaying, facing Draco.

"Why?" she asked and his jaw went tight, the muscles spasming.

"I –" he started to speak and broke off as with a pop Bill and Fleur Weasley apparated into the room holding Dobby's hands, their wands spitting sparking curses as soon as they appeared.

"_Why_?" Hermione demanded again, only thinking clear enough to know that if Draco would save _her,_ the girl he used to love to torment, maybe there was hope for him yet. Maybe she could convince him to…

"I'm not a damned monster, Hermione. _Granger_. If I leave, if I don't do what I'm told, my family and I get tortured or killed. I'm doing what I have to do to survive."

"How fucking _noble_," she spat and was disappointed when he didn't react to her goading.

"He's going to torture me for the failure to capture you. What dear Aunt Bella did to you will be a fucking drop in the ocean compared to my lot later on. So don't you lecture me about noble!" His voice cracked and his lip trembled, and Hermione could see tears of fear shimmering silver in his eyes. Draco wasn't lying; he really did expect to be tortured for helping her. And that didn't change a damn thing in Hermione's mind.

"Good," she snarled in a most un-Hermione-like manner, "Think of me while you're screaming, and how if I was there, I wouldn't fucking help you. _Stupefy!_" The last word was yelled and Draco went tumbling backwards, wand skittering out of his hand as his head met marble floor.

Hermione didn't spare him another glance, turning and running for the others, where the battle raged on. She skidded to a halt by Bill Weasley, pointed her wand at Bellatrix, and yelled,

"_Crucio!_" Venom saturated her voice, and the insane witch couldn't block it in time. Bellatrix crumpled and writhed and Lucius was distracted for a moment, forced to use defensive magic instead of curses. He threw up a shivering Shield charm

"Quickly!" Dobby cried and held out his hands to the five witches and wizards. They dashed to him quickly, Harry lagging behind and shooting curses at Malfoy Senior as he backed towards the house elf.

"Come on, Harry!" Bill cried as Hermione laid her hand on Dobby's back. House elf magic didn't operate by the same rules as human magic, and apparently one benefit was that Dobby could apparate past the Malfoy's wards, taking humans out too using side-along apparition.

Her eyes met Ron's and Hermione saw horror and empathy written over Ron's face. It was awkward, too intimate, and Hermione dropped her eyes, and her cruciatus curse sputtered to a halt. Just as Harry reached Dobby, Bella straightened and pulled something glinting silver from her clothing. A laugh erupted from her twisted mouth as she threw the silver blade toward them. Hermione flinched and then the world twisted and her stomach was nauseated as Dobby disapparated.

Hermione hit the sandy ground hard and tumbled to her knees ungracefully, the wrenching feeling behind her bellybutton fading. She was on all fours, and her tears dripped on the backs of her hands and on the ground, her whole body trembling. She could hear Harry calling Dobby's name, fear and anguish in his voice, but she couldn't focus on it, the world slipping into chaos. Was she safe? Were they away? Her wounds stung and her mind felt utterly shattered from the events of the past few hours.

"Hermione?" Ron's familiar voice was a balm on her nerves as he lifted her to her feet, wrapping his arm around her waist to keep her upright. His arm dug into the cuts on her lower ribs, but the feel and smell of him was like home, and Hermione leant her head against his side, sighing softly.

"Merlin, 'ermione! What deed zey do to you?" Fleur's French tones buzzed over her in a worried wave,

"Ron, Ron we must get her eenside. Come."

"Can you walk?" Ron leant his head down to hers, speaking into Hermione's tangled mane, breath warm on her scalp and ear.

"Y-yes." She found some remaining strength somewhere and lifted her head, looking around.

"Oh," the exclamation wisped from her softly, and her tears started anew as the first thing her eyes fell upon was Harry walking towards them with bowed head, Dobby cradled in his arms. The house elf's head lolled limply, and Hermione knew he was dead. She bit her tongue and tasted blood; Bellatrix had taken a victim after all, and that made Hermione furious. Ron tried to guide Hermione away from the grassy edge of the beach but Hermione resisted his tugs as Harry drew closer.

"I'm so sorry, Harry."

He met her eyes and nodded once jerkily.

"Thanks. I'm sorry too." A rough whisper and misery in his green eyes.

"I want to bury him. Not with magic. Do you have a shovel around?" Harry asked Fleur and Bill and Bill nodded, leading Harry away into the grey of the nearing dawn.

"'Ermione, pleeze, come eenside and let me feex your wounds."

And Hermione followed the Beauxbaton's witch painfully up the long winding pathway to a little cottage overlooking the sea, leaning heavy on Ron. Her brain was crammed to overflowing with the vivid memories of what had happened since they had been captured and her mind kept wandering away on her. She felt her jeans rubbing damp on her upper thighs and blushed, mortified and simultaneously amazed that she had the energy to care about something as minor as wetting her pants. Her knee hurt like buggery, she must've twisted it somehow, and she was panting with exhaustion and pain by the time they reached the top of the low gently sloping hill Bill and Fleur's house sat atop.

There was a little white picket fence around the house, and the gate that Fleur swung open had a little copper plaque that read 'Shell Cottage'.

"Hermione." Luna appeared in the open doorway of Shell Cottage in a pair of brown overalls, hair in two plaits, mouth dropped open with concern.

"Ron, Fleur." Luna looked them over as they traipsed in past her, Ron jerking his head in acknowledgment and mumbling hello.

"Where are Bill and Harry and Dobby? Are they alright?" Her tone was dreamy and lacked most of the urgency most people would express, a faint pursing of her lips and worry in her eyes the only overt sign of Luna's fear for the others.

"Dobby's dead." Ron answered her abruptly as he led Hermione through to the room Fleur waved him towards.

"Harry and Bill are fine. Harry's burying Dobby. Come on, 'Mione, let's get you on the bed." Ron sounded stronger lately, more confident and together.

He had ever since he'd come back to them and destroyed the locket that night. It was as though something fundamental had been changed in him. He'd grown up. It made Hermione feel safer around him, like she didn't have to do all the thinking herself, which was ever so useful in a situation like this, where she was too fragile and hurting to be the organised, together one.

As if in a dream Hermione lay down on the bed and heard Luna murmur that she was going to go and keep Harry company. She thought that was nice. Merlin, she was tired, and still so sore from the cruciatus curses she had suffered through.

"Ron, perhaps you should go. We need privacy for zees."

"I'll be just outside, 'Mione." A warm, large hand squeezed Hermione's and she squeezed it back, eyes shut. The door closed with a creak and a soft thunk, and Hermione sighed, opening her eyes and looking up at Fleur. The beautiful witch was staring down at Hermione's wounds with sympathy, and Hermione thought that loving Bill was good for Fleur. She looked softer, easier in her skin somehow.

"Accio Essence of Dittany," Fleur called and a bottle zapped off a shelf, flying into Fleur's hand.

"Zey are not so bad, your injuries." A wand movement over Hermione's body accompanied by a stream of muttered words, and Fleur nodded as the magical scan confirmed her judgement.

"Eet looks as zo all but zees, ah, injuries on your arm and chest were done wees a blade. Zose ones were done wees magic, and ze scarring weel not be eliminated wees dittany. A medi-witch would be able to feex it, per'aps but I cannot." Fleur dabbed the dittany over Hermione's other wounds as she spoke, the cuts slowly closing and disappearing to nothing but healing pink skin as she worked.

"I am sorry, 'ermione."

Hermione felt dazed and numb. So, Bellatrix had marked her, had she? She couldn't seem to summon the energy to care.

"Thank you, Fleur." She whispered hoarsely, and shut her eyes, letting the Beauxbaton's witch tend to her wounds in silence.

# # #

Hermione sat on the stairs and worried, head in her hands as she stared at the front door.

It had been nearly two months since Hermione and the others had arrived on Bill and Fleur's doorstep, bloodied, battered and carrying their dead. Griphook, Merlin damn him, had absconded with the sword three days after they had arrived there. God knew how he'd managed to escape, body as broken as it had been, but either way he was gone, and with him the only hope of destroying the other horcruxes – including Helga Hufflepuff's cup. After that loss, things had kind of…stagnated. There was no way of getting successfully in and out of Gringotts without Griphook's help, and without the sword they couldn't destroy the cup anyway. All stealing the cup would do was alert you-know-who to the fact that they were actively seeking out his horcruxes.

So they had done what they had called 'regrouping', but what was really just _stagnating_ in Hermione's opinion.

She, Harry and Ron had joined back up with the Order of the Phoenix and now the war against you-know-who was fought with guerrilla tactics and far too much spying and sneaking about for Hermione's frayed nerves to take.

Hogwarts had fallen a month ago, and lives had been lost…god, so many lives. Children and teachers alike had been cut down by the Death Eaters, led by Voldemort himself and backed from within the castle by Snape, damn him. The Order had managed to get a lot of people out to safety through a tunnel from the Room of Requirement, which ended in Aberforth Dumbledore's pub. That had saved a lot of lives, but it still hadn't been enough. She rubbed a hand over her eyes and sighed, lips pressed tight as she held back tears.

And so Hermione sat, worrying and waiting on the stairs of Harry's babyhood home in Godric's Hollow.

You-know-who would never think to look for them _here_, of all places. The Order had cast a web of spells and charms over the building, and from the outside it appeared the same to wizarding eyes – a tumbling down ruin. In reality, the old damage and the disrepair had been fixed, and the size of the house magically enhanced, to accommodate the many witches and wizards now working with the Order. They were well organised, Hermione had to admit, and a lot of that was thanks to Harry, who had found a ruthless streak within himself that kept them all together. He might not have the knowledge or skill to run the Order by himself, but with the use of judicious delegation to older and wiser witches and wizards, Harry made a fine figurehead for people to rally under.

He was more than just _Harry_, now he truly was the Boy Who Lived. He hated it, of course. Hermione smiled and jiggled her feet on the carpeted stair.

Harry, Ron and Mr Weasley were out getting food supplies – they went through a lot of food these days – and the safest place to get them was through Muggle means. So they apparated to a nearby town and apparated back onto the doorstep with bagfuls of groceries. Hermione would have gone with them, but since that day at the Malfoy Manor… She shut her eyes and buried her face in her knees, trying not to remember, stopping herself with no little effort from indulging the perverted urge to pull up her sleeve and look at the crude letters carved into her skin.

She didn't like going out anymore.

# # #

_Author's Note: _Next chapter, Draco stumbles over the doorstep, and the real fun begins…

I would love it if you would leave me a comment, lovely readers, even if it's just an 'I like this story." Hearing that you're enjoying it, and/or what exactly you like about it, would like to see happen, etc, helps me guide the fic in a direction you will hopefully enjoy, and gives me the motivation to keep writing when life gets busy on me :)


	2. Empty in the Valley of Your Heart

_Author's Note: _Thank you to everyone who has read, and an extra huge thanks to my first reviewer :) And we're on to the story itself, and this chapter, Hermione finds herself in a position of power over the person she hates…

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"Hermione? 'Mione, wake up."

_Hermione shook her head, fighting against the magical bindings that pinned her helpless like a bug to the floor of Malfoy Manor. She screamed as Bellatrix crucioed her, again and again, but it didn't help. It didn't stop it from hurting; it didn't bring anyone running to save her. Oh god she couldn't take this agony. She wanted to die. Bellatrix loomed over her; face twisted with sick pleasure as she drew her silver blade and pierced Hermione's skin with the point. Hermione whimpered and shivered and sobbed, a snivelling mudblood messing on the Malfoys' pristine damned floor._

"_Please, Draco. Help me!" She begged, "Please… Kill me!"_

_Tears streamed down her face, runny snot coating the skin above her upper lip, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she begged Draco Malfoy to end it all for her. To make it stop._

"_Please…" Hermione forced out again, eyes opening and pleading with him and Draco just looked at her with a horrified shrinking expression, and she choked and sobbed and _hated_ him._

"_Hhhh_!" Hermione's eyes snapped open and she dragged in a long breath, body jerking bolt upright and a clunk resounded and sharp pain blossomed in her forehead, lights flaring behind her eyes.

"Ow!" A male voice complained loudly – Ron – and Hermione echoed his pained yelp, her hand going to her forehead and clutching it gingerly.

"Ron?" Hermione fell back against her pillow, blinking dazedly. God that had bloody well _hurt_. Ron's head felt astonishingly hard. She looked up at him and could only see a disembodied head in the dark. Dark? She had just gone up to her room to have a lie down before dinner, and now it was dark? She must have fallen asleep, she realised belatedly. Hermione's face was wet with tears and her head ached, her nose running a little bit. She wiped it with her sleeve and let out a shaky sigh. It had just been a dream.

"I heard you shrieking. Like a bloody banshee." Ron explained his presence in Hermione's tiny bedroom, "I thought that, um, you must have been having a nightmare…"

"I was."

"Do, um," Ron looked highly discomfited, hand rubbing the bump he was no doubt developing on his forehead as he rushed out with a reluctant, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Hermione felt a laugh bubble inside at Ron's soothing Ron-ness.

"No, no really." She said calmly as tears streaked slow paths down her face, staring up from her pillow at Ron's pale face – floating above her bed in the faint moonlight seeping through the curtains. He nodded with visible relief.

"Ah. Okay then. I guess I'll just go…" He waved in the general direction of the bedroom door and Hermione smiled to herself, "Back to _my_ bed…" He continued and backed away from the bed.

"Night 'Mione."

"Goodnight, Ron. And – thank you."

Ron jerked his head in a 'no problem' motion and grinned, teeth white in the moonlight, and kept backing out awkwardly.

The door clicked shut behind him and Hermione let out a shaky sigh, wiping her sticky-damp cheeks with the backs of her wrists.

Almost every night she dreamed about some muddled version of true events. Sometimes it was much, much worse than reality, and sometimes it was much, much better. But most nights, like tonight, it was just a slightly jumbled version of reality. Hermione stayed up late and barely slept these days – sometimes going several days without sleep. Not that anyone noticed; things were so busy here at Godric's Hollow, and sleep schedules were all over the place. But try as she might to avoid sleep, eventually on days like today the lack would catch up with her and she would drop off unawares.

And then the nightmares came, with screams of '_crucio_'and flashing silver knives, cowardly grey eyes always present – watching her torture and humiliation with impotent fear.

# # #

There was a loud banging at the door and Ron leapt to his feet,

"I'll get it!" he babbled nervously and hurried out of the dining room into the foyer like a startled rabbit. Hermione heard Fred swear from the lounge, and from her vantage point at the table could see him hurrying toward the front door. They always went in pairs…just in case. Hermione gazed toward the foyer with anxious eyes, heartbeat picking up. It was unlikely any Death Eaters could have found them, but even so, every time someone knocked at the door the occupants of the house froze.

"Ron, you know we aren't supposed to answer the door alone, you git," Hermione could hear Fred say, and Ron protested indistinctly. Everyone waited with bated breath as Fred called through the door, "Password?"

No Muggles could even see the house, and to any wizard or witch it should appear as the abandoned ruin it had been. It was no longer either. There were enough magical barriers up to hide an army from you-know-who's own sight, but like the others, Hermione could never convince herself to relax when someone approached the house when there were no returns scheduled.

"Mischief managed." Hermione's straining ears just picked up Lupin's embarrassed voice through the door. It was his password for a successfully completed patrol– Fred and George had picked all the passwords, god knew why _they_ had been allowed that job – and Lupin hated it.

At the sound of Remus' voice, sounding hale and hearty, Hermione's death-grip on her book eased a little. She shot a relieved look at Harry, who smiled, his expression mirroring her relief.

"He sounds okay," she said, remembering the day almost exactly a month ago when Keelah Johnson had gone out to spy on the Malfoy Manor, and apparated back with his chest flayed open thanks to an ambush and a very nasty spell. A few wizards and witches that Hermione hadn't known so well simply went out and…never returned.

"I've got two prisoners," Remus called through the door, "one is conscious but wandless and cooperative, and the other under the _Imperius_, wandless and docile."

Hermione's spine snapped straight and her fingers dug into the book again. She shot a glance at Harry who was already on his feet and hurrying toward the front door, wand at the ready. Hermione hesitated for a long second and then stood up and followed him, pulling out her own wand. Mrs Weaselly, George and Kingsley were doing the same, pouring into the foyer from the lounge that sat opposite the dining room, Kingsley, George and Harry taking up position in front of the stairs, Hermione and Mrs Weaselly watching from the archways either side of the foyer. Hermione's fingers were slippery with sweat on her wand and her heart pounded, and Mrs Weaselly smiled reassuringly at her.

Fred cracked the door open and peered out, only his head and wand stuck out the narrow opening and then nodded, opened the door the rest of the way.

"Well, if it isn't the fucking ferret," Ron snarled and Hermione's chest constricted as Draco Malfoy stepped into the house. Panic rushed over her and her head went blank; she couldn't seem to get a breath, lungs screaming for air but nothing happening. She swayed and staggered back, dropping her wand with a small clatter as she _remembered_. She saw Malfoy and everything just _rushed_ back. Hermione could hear Bellatrix screaming '_Crucio!'_ and mocking her, see Malfoy standing near her magically bound body with frightened, cowardly eyes, doing nothing – felt again the overwhelming terror and despair she had experienced.

"Hermione, my _dear_." Mrs Weaselly's voice broke into Hermione's memory-looping mind and her arms were warm around Hermione's shoulders as she gently embraced her. Her motherly hands rubbed Hermione's back as she pulled Hermione out of the foyer, back into the dining room – away from Malfoy.

It took a while for the panic attack to pass and Hermione's mind to focus once more. When she finally looked up with clear eyes she was sitting at the table again, her wand on the tabletop, Mrs Weaselly crouched by her side.

"Are you all right, dear?" Mrs Weaselly fretted, "What happened?"

"Just a – a panic attack." Hermione managed, tongue feeling thick in her mouth, "I'm fine. Honestly." She looked around and from where she sat, she could see into the lounge. Could see Draco Malfoy sitting on the couch with his skinny shoulders slumped, his mouth moving as he spoke to Harry, who stood before him with his wand out and face cold and hard. Hermione had to fight not to let the panic take her over again at the sight of Malfoy, and she fixed her mind on her breathing and her eyes on the floor.

"Here." Mrs Weaselly pressed a mug into her hands and Hermione sipped at it without looking, gasping as firewhiskey burnt down her throat. She _must_ have been in a bad way if Molly Weaselly was pushing alcohol upon her. She smiled her watery thanks and took another sip, and the alcohol steadied her nerves a little.

"Are you sure you're fine, Hermione dear?"

"I'll be okay, thank you, Mrs Weaselly. It was just a…shock."

"It was indeed." Mrs Weaselly's eyes were on what was happening in the lounge, and Hermione could sense the older woman wanted to be in there – to hear what was going on.

"You can go…" Hermione waved a hand at the tense tableau in the lounge, "I'll just sit here a moment longer."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes, please. I'm fine."

"Just call me if you need me, then, dear." Mrs Weaselly patted Hermione's knee and hurried off into the room opposite.

Hermione watched – she didn't want to look at Malfoy but she made herself do it. She wasn't going to let his presence control her like this. She couldn't afford to fall apart if she saw someone who had been _there_. That was the sort of thing that could get her and the people around her killed if it happened during a battle. Hermione steeled herself and told herself she was tougher than this, and she almost believed it. He was talking to Harry still – answering questions it looked like, but Hermione couldn't make out what he was saying. The couch he was sitting on afforded her a not-quite profile view of him, mostly seeing the back of his head, the corner of his mouth moving as he spoke, the end of his sharp nose, his left hand gesticulating apathetically ever so often. Hate and fear trickled through Hermione's veins in equal quantities. But she didn't panic again.

She kept sipping automatically at the firewhiskey and watching the interrogation. After a while Harry nodded abruptly and came toward Hermione, running his hands through his mussed thatch of hair. He sat down opposite her at the table.

"Are you okay, 'Mione?" His green eyes were brimming with worry and his mouth was taut and strained with tension. She nodded, "I'm all right now." She flashed a glance at the lounge and Draco Malfoy's hunched figure.

"What's going on, Harry?"

"Malfoy wants to surrender to us in exchange for our protection," Harry bit out sharply and Hermione's eyes widened.

"You're _joking_."

"Afraid not."

"_Why_?" Hermione's forehead furrowed as she tried to figure it out and couldn't. Harry sighed heavily and rested his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands.

"Do you want the long story or the short one?"

"Short. You can give me the details later," she said and added quietly, "If I want to hear them."

Harry sighed again and began, "Apparently Malfoy refused to fall in line with you-know-who's orders."

In response to Hermione's questioning look he added, "He wouldn't kill anyone, _apparently_. Anyway, you-know-who started…" Harry winced noticeably, unconsciously clenching and unclenching a fist; "_Punishing_ Malfoy for his disobedience, but Malfoy still wouldn't kill anyone. In the end, Lucius disowned him, and then you-know-who threatened to kill Narcissa if Malfoy didn't do what he was told. But the way Malfoy tells it; he truly can't face the thought of killing anyone. _Apparently_. So he took his mother and ran for it. He made it to Grimmauld Place, which is where Remus found him hanging about with his mother - whom incidentally he'd had to _Imperius _because she wouldn't leave willingly without Lucius. And anyway, now he's here, begging for refuge, and I don't know what the hell to do."

Harry sighed once more and scrubbed his hands through his messy hair again, meeting Hermione's eyes.

"I don't know whether we can believe him, 'Mione. I don't know what to do."

Hermione wanted to say so many things; thoughts of revenge running through her head, her breath coming shallow and quick.

"_**Kill him."**_

"_**Throw him out."**_

"_**Kill his mother while he watches."**_

"_**Torture him then kill him."**_

"_**Torture his mother."**_

"_**Make him suffer."**_

She took a deep breath and looked into Harry's green eyes, smudged beneath with dark shadows from the constant strain and fear they were all under. It was the worst for him – he was their de facto leader now, in most things. He carried so much of the burden all by himself. She wanted him to be able to be happy. She bit her lip and thought about whether Malfoy should be trusted. She started to speak and then stopped. Tried again and stuttered to a halt.

It meant thinking about _that_, and memories flashed through Hermione's mind again and she felt sick and trembly. Harry, bless him, noticed and stifled his obvious impatience, waiting quietly for her to find the words.

"At – at the Malfoys' Manor when…" Hermione shook her head and laid a hand flat on the table to steady herself as her PTSD kicked back into gear. It wasn't a panic attack, but it was still awful and she felt like vomiting.

"Hermione." Harry's voice was warm and worried and _real_. "Hermione, it's okay. You're here, with me. You're safe."

"Sorry, Harry," She managed after a moment, smiling weakly at her concerned friend. She continued, running her fingers through her tangled hair, "When you got out of the dungeon and all the fighting started… Malfoy could have killed me, or disapparated with me – that's what he was supposed to do. But instead he…he let me go and gave me my wand back."

"So you think we _can_ trust him?" Harry extrapolated from her revelation and Hermione nodded.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, but –"

"It's fine. You didn't have any reason to tell me before now." His bright eyes were soft with empathy and Hermione realised for the millionth time just how lucky she was to have a friend like Harry. He understood her without needing it explained to him. She hadn't talked to anyone about what had happened to her, and so far none of the others had ever asked about it, thank god. Hermione suspected their lack of prying had more to do with the wizarding world being bereft of any knowledge of psychology though, rather than being out of respect for her wish for privacy. Hermione was grateful for it anyway, although she did have the niggling feeling that Muggles were probably right about it being important to talk out your experiences. She just wasn't ready to do that yet.

"Thank you, Harry."

"No problem." Harry scratched behind his ear and looked uncomfortably off into the thin air at his right; sensitivity quota for the day probably all used up. The air was filled with things that Hermione wanted to leave unsaid, and the emotional tension was suffocating.

"So, you think he's telling the truth, then? We can trust that he's not going to try to stab us in the backs?" Harry returned to the business at hand and Hermione nodded, glad of the distraction.

"I think he's genuine. I mean, we should treat him like a prisoner, just in case. But I don't _think_ it would be a trick, and if it's _not_ and he really needs our help…it would be wrong to turn him away," she said reluctantly.

"You're a better person than I am, Hermione. If it was me, I'd want to curse him, not shelter him."

Hermione laughed shortly and without humour, the sound harsh and overloud, and she saw Malfoy's head twist around toward them. She looked quickly away and then breathed in deeply, forcing herself to be calm. She _wouldn't_ let him panic her. She refused to be frightened of him. The bastard.

"Oh I _want_ to curse him. But I won't."

She looked back over at him, his head turned away again, blonde hair looking dirty and shoulders hunched up around his ears. He seemed frightened and it gave Hermione strength seeing him so defeated and afraid. She smiled ever so slightly as an idea suddenly occurred to her.

"Can I tell him?" She burst out and Harry just looked at her for a long second, most likely evaluating her emotional state.

"I suppose… If you think you can cope, Hermione. But _why_?" He ducked his head and flashed her an embarrassed look, "Sorry. You don't have to tell me…"

Hermione didn't have a problem telling him. A sense of deep satisfaction at the irony of her and Malfoy's switched positions had given her the strength she needed.

"When…_well_. He wouldn't do anything. He wouldn't speak for me, he wouldn't stop them, and he wouldn't…_well_," she didn't want to say how she'd begged Malfoy to kill her. She forced a smile to her lips, "And now he's the one who needs my help – well, ours, but you know what I mean," Harry nodded and Hermione continued, "And I'm going to do what he didn't. The right thing."

Her smile turned vicious, she knew it did – it felt cold and tight on her face.

"I hope it _burns_ him."

Harry blinked nervously. She wasn't usually like this. She gave Harry a genuine if fragile smile, "Sorry. I know that sounds awful but –"

"No, it sounds completely understandable."

Hermione got to her feet, draining the last few trickles of firewhiskey and shivering as it slid down her throat.

"Shall we?" she asked Harry and he nodded tightly, "You're _sure_ you'll be okay?"

"I'll be fine, Harry. I promise." Hermione assured him, striding confidently through to the lounge. At least, she hoped she looked confident – she still felt shaky, and her heart was still racing. But she was determined. She marched around the end of the couch and stood in front of Draco Malfoy, who looked up at her with wide eyes. She could see a glint of fear and it gave her a feeling of power that she knew was wrong, but revelled in anyway. Surely that too would be understandable.

"Malfoy."

"H – Granger." He answered her in a fearful mumble. It was completely unlike how he had sounded at school, the arrogant git, but an amplification of the fear and uncertainty that had threaded through his voice at the Manor when… Hermione cut those thoughts off. She didn't need to start remembering now. She examined him with sharp eyes, trying to make her face cold and blank, arms crossed over her chest. Harry hovered behind her, ready to give support or take over if she needed it. She appreciated the thought, but she wouldn't need any help. She _would_ keep it together. She _would_.

Malfoy was still hunched over, an expensive wool coat thrown around his skinny, broad shoulders, his arms hidden – wrapped around his middle, it seemed. The grey silk shirt he wore was stained with blood and grime, just like the coat and trousers, and even his hair. His face was even thinner than it had been last time she'd seen him, his eyes deeply shadowed and his gaunt cheeks making sharp, unflattering angles in his already pointed face. He looked like a wreck, and Hermione took a deep breath and let it out slowly, enjoying the sight.

"Having a good perv, Granger?" Malfoy snarled with a hint of his old arrogant snark, and Hermione curled her lip in disgust, her response coming without thought, "If I _were_ ever going to 'perv' at you Malfoy, it certainly wouldn't be now. Have you _seen_ yourself?"

He actually flinched and huddled further in on himself as Hermione's retort hit the mark, and she wasn't sure if she should feel triumphant or guilty. He looked so pathetic, like he was trying to shrink himself down, a crumpled heap on the couch.

"Hah, you tell 'em, 'Mione," Ron crowed and Hermione bit her lip as Malfoy cringed even more. She was supposed to be being the magnanimous good guy here, not taunting him.

"So I guess _you're_ going to tell me whatever it is you've decided to do with me and mother," Malfoy said in a dull voice.

"That seems fair, I suppose. Considering…" He met Hermione's eyes and she held his gaze without flinching, and he broke the stare first.

"Considering what I did. Or didn't do. I'm sorry, Granger." He glanced up at her again.

"Regardless of what you decide to do with me and…and mother. I'm truly sorry."

Hermione felt her heart gallop like it was trying to burst right out of her chest, and it started getting hard to breath again. Her fists clenched at her sides. How _dare_ he apologise to her.

"I'm sure feeling sorry helps salve your conscience, Malfoy, but it doesn't change what happened to me. It doesn't fix that. So I'd rather you kept your _sorries _to yourself." She fell silent when Harry's fingertips brushed her upper arm, a reminder to stay calm. Hermione smiled shakily over her shoulder at Harry and then just stared at Malfoy for a moment, trying to figure out how best to tell him he could stay in their custody. Part of her really didn't want to say it. Part of her – a big part despite how much she wanted to be the person who always did the _right_ thing wanted to tell Malfoy to get out. Why should _she_ want to keep him safe from you-know-who?

Before she could say anything, Malfoy looked up at her with desperate eyes and said, "Please, Granger, whatever you do…can you keep my mother safe? She – she isn't bad. She was born into this, brought up to believe in pureblood superiority…and then she married father, and believed whatever he did because _Merlin_ she loves him so much, and, and…she's never hurt anyone, honestly. She doesn't deserve to die." The words tumbled out of him and he sounded like a frightened little boy, and Hermione believed everything he said. She didn't want to, but she did. _So_, he obviously valued one thing in the world besides his own skin. That was something, at least.

"Do what you want with me, I deserve it for…" He trailed off as their eyes glued together, and a look of repulsively intimate knowledge passed between them. Malfoy was the only person in this room, in this _house_ who knew what had happened to Hermione, in every awful detail. That connected them, and it _sickened_ her.

"You can stay." She said numbly, her fancy little speech flying out of her head. Malfoy blinked at her and cocked his head to the side, "What?"

"You can stay. You and your precious, bloody mother," Hermione repeated herself, fury and complete emotional collapse warring with each other inside her. At this point fury was winning, the galling sensation of _helping_ Malfoy making her want to throw things, scream, have a full blown tantrum like she used to when she was only very small.

"We…can…? Thank you," he said slowly and quietly, "Thank you. I owe you a debt I can never repay."

"I don't want you owing me anything. You still disgust me. And you won't be honoured guests; in case you're getting confused, you're our _prisoners_." Hermione stumbled out the words, trying to distance herself from the terrible, pathetic gratitude on Malfoy's face. She didn't want to feel sorry for him. She wanted to be angry. Anger was safer.

"Y-yes. Of course," he stammered then paused and a shadow of the old, arrogant, Malfoy showed in his tone, "I wouldn't _dream_ of presuming otherwise."

Hermione ignored that and turned toward Harry.

"Where will we put them?"

"We'll put Malfoy in the cellar, I suppose," he said after a moment's thought, and then turned to Kingsley, "Could you make sure it's secure?"

"Yes. Of course." Kingsley nodded and swiftly exited the room, and a moment later Hermione could hear the trapdoor in the kitchen open and his muffled steps down the steep, narrow stairs.

"Where's my mother?" Malfoy asked, still with a hint of pomposity in his tone and Hermione looked to Harry again, not knowing where Narcissa was.

"She's safe," Harry said, "You can see her once you've proved you won't try anything. Maybe."

Hermione signalled her approval of the tactic at Harry with a raised eyebrow and nod, and Harry nodded back. It really _was_ a good idea. Harry was getting clever in his decision-making lately. Taking on more of a leadership role seemed to suit him, really. He had grown so much in the past few months. At any rate, keeping Malfoy and his mother apart would give them a hold over Malfoy; help them keep him in line.

"You promise she's safe?" The arrogance had left Malfoy's tone again, as he began to process, Hermione supposed, the reality of just how much at their mercy he was. Good. She hoped it bloody well _tormented_ him to be so helpless.

"I promise," Harry replied shortly.

"Thank you," Malfoy said simply and Hermione wondered if Malfoy had been so polite throughout his entire life combined as he had just this evening. She stared at him coldly, still not showing a hint of outward emotion he could use against her. It was five long minutes of staring at Malfoy while he stared mostly at the floor before Kingsley reappeared.

"It's done. He won't be getting out of there anytime soon."

"Good," Hermione said, still in charge of the situation, it seemed. Later on she would have to thank Harry for trusting her to do this.

"Come on, Malfoy. Move it." She glared at him and he struggled to his feet, looming over her.

Looming…over… _Oh_. A wash of thoughtless panic, images, impression – _memories_ – consumed Hermione. Malfoy had loomed over Hermione's helpless body and she had been terrified; scared he was going to kidnap her or kill her or…take advantage of her. She blinked, coming back to the present. He hadn't kidnapped her, hadn't killed her, hadn't…hadn't raped her. He'd let her go. Disoriented and still panicky Hermione took a staggering step back with her eyes fixed to Malfoy's grey ones. She tripped on the edge of a rug and started to wobble over backwards, and like it was happening in slow motion Malfoy stepped forward and reached out to grab her. An automatic instinct? Whatever it was, his right arm came out from beneath his coat and reached out to grab her and the blood drained from Hermione's face and she bit back a scream. Despite Malfoy's automatic attempt to stop her from falling, Hermione tumbled onto her bum on the floor and stared with eyes as round as saucers up at him.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ And we end on a cliffhanger! It's probably isn't that hard to figure out, but you'll have to wait until next update to know for sure *evil laugh*

_Reviews _give me motivation to hurry up with my writing, so the more _reviews_ I get, the quicker the next chapter goes up on the site. Think of it as…some twisted, hopeful type of blackmail :)

Okay, a little about where I'm going with the characters…

I think Hermione's torture would have affected her more deeply than it did in the book. That kind of traumatic experience has lasting repercussion, and I don't think it's unreasonable to think that she would suffer from PTSD. I mean, some on – her friends were locked up, unable to help her, and an evil witch was torturing her! She would have expected to either go insane or be killed, and that's not something a teenager just bounces back from – especially when she then goes on to continue being in mortal danger. So Hermione in this story, while not being traumatised to the point of being unable to function, nonetheless has some issues she needs to work through. She's still the sharp-tongued, bookish, intelligent witch who mothers Harry and Ron though.

Draco isn't going to be an enormously arrogant git – at least, not at the beginning. He's been brought down a peg or ten, he's at the mercy of the Order, his father has disowned him, and he's kidnapped his mother and _Imperiused _her to try to keep her safe. He's not going to be in the best shape mentally or emotionally. He's also not stupid enough to jeopardise his safety with snark, and as we will see later on, he's certainly not in the best headspace for snark. I have to say, I'm really enjoying writing a defeated, rather helpless Draco. Defecting from an evil cult and being disowned by your father isn't going to leave you unscathed, emotionally. So he, just like Hermione, has some issues to work through.

Yay, issues! They make for the best angst :)

Also, in this story, Harry is really coming into his own as a leader and a wizard, and has grown up a lot – still a bit too reckless, like Sirius was, but he's also found a ruthless streak, and is determined to win the war no matter what the risk.


	3. Weep for Yourself

_Author's Note: _Thank you _so_ much to everyone who has reviewed! You folks are the awesomest :D Now, on to the story…

_Enjoy!_

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_**Chapter Two**_

_Looming…over… Oh. A wash of thoughtless panic, images, impression – memories – consumed Hermione. Malfoy had loomed over Hermione's helpless body and she had been terrified; scared he was going to kidnap her or kill her or…take advantage of her. She blinked, coming back to the present. He hadn't kidnapped her, hadn't killed her, hadn't…hadn't raped her. He'd let her go. Disoriented and still panicky Hermione took a staggering step back with her eyes fixed to Malfoy's grey ones. She tripped on the edge of a rug and started to wobble over backwards, and like it was happening in slow motion Malfoy stepped forward and reached out to grab her. An automatic instinct? Whatever it was, his right arm came out from beneath his coat and reached out to grab her and the blood drained from Hermione's face and she bit back a scream. Despite Malfoy's automatic attempt to stop her from falling, Hermione tumbled onto her bum on the floor and stared with eyes as round as saucers up at him._

"Your…" Hermione said in a strangled voice, stomach rebelling on her as she stared at Malfoy's arm. At where his hand should have been, at the end of his arm. _Should have been. _Oh god.

"Your _hand_. Oh my god, Malfoy, your _hand_." It was gone. There was nothing but a neat stump that ended just above where his wrist bones should have been. She choked on her shock, gaping openly at it. It was scarred across with thin purplish-red marks – angry looking, like the wound was still healing. She gulped. While there was nothing intrinsically offensive about the stump itself, the _wrongness_ of seeing nothing where there should have been _hand_ – the shock of it…god… Hermione felt complete emotional collapse win its ongoing battle with fury, and tears sprang to her eyes. She couldn't identify any of what she was feeling, except for a definite sensation of complete and utter horrified shock.

"But you…it…" She pointed stupidly at the stump and Malfoy bit his lip and shot her an angry, humiliated expression, tucking the foreshortened arm back under his coat and swallowing hard.

Harry helped Hermione to her feet but her eyes didn't leave Malfoy's face. She had this awful fear that… She remembered what he had said in the Manor about how Voldemort would torture him for letting her go…

"What – what _happened_?"

Malfoy was silent – not defiantly so, though. Hermione thought he looked like he wanted to sink into the ground; such was the extent of his humiliation. She paused and licked her lips, waving Harry off.

"What happened, Malfoy?" Her tone was hard, brooking no argument. She needed to know. Malfoy looked down at his arm hidden within the folds of his coat, his self-disgust clear on his face and Hermione couldn't help wondering how she would feel if she'd just lost a body part. Would she despise the loss? Think it looked ugly? Feel mutilated and look at it in self-disgust? She thought she probably would, but of course she couldn't truly imagine it.

"Don't worry, Granger. It wasn't because of you." He muttered sullenly, still staring down at his arm, the terrible injury tucked away out of sight. Relief flooded Hermione, and she felt like a terrible person for feeling it. Malfoy had still lost his hand, whether it was through her fault or not.

She felt sick as she thought about how she'd been wishing something bad would happen to Malfoy. That he would suffer. And now it had and he was, and she just felt _sorry_ for him.

"The Dark Lord only took a couple of fingers for my letting you go; I lost my hand later on," Malfoy continued in a dull, far away voice, and Hermione recognised it. He was remembering. She felt ill.

"_Fingers_?" Because of her. Malfoy lost his fingers because he helped her. Did that mean it was wrong of her to still hate him, alongside the pity that pulled at her insides? Hermione felt lost, dazed.

"Mm. My little finger and my ring finger." Malfoy stared at Hermione now, and it was like they were the only two people in the room, the air crackling with tension.

"He tortured me for a while – it's how I got this, incidentally, and a few others that you can't see." He pointed with his left hand to a well-healed long scar so close to his hairline down the right side of his face that Hermione hadn't noticed it earlier.

"And then, at the climax of his little torture session with me…" Malfoy's voice wavered and his whole body shook, "He tore off my fingers and fed them to Nagini."

"Oh god… Dra–" Hermione's hands clamped over her mouth to shut herself up before she said his name or threw up, and she let out a choked sob instead, tears starting to leak from her eyes and stomach lurching with revulsion.

Harry stepped forward and roughly grabbed Malfoy's arm shaking him a little, "That's e-bloody-nough, Malfoy." Harry jerked his head at Ron,

"Take Hermione upstairs, Ron. I'll take Malfoy from here, 'Mione. You all right?"

Hermione, her hands still clamped to her mouth and tears pouring over her cheeks now as the floodgates of her emotions gave way, just nodded. It was all too much. She was past it. Her frayed nerves had snapped and now she couldn't seem to stop herself from crying – and in front of Malfoy, damn him. He watched her with curious, slightly amused grey eyes, no doubt enjoying seeing her like this.

Ron put his arm around Hermione's shoulders, murmuring bolstering words to her, and she tried to focus on him, but she couldn't help watching Malfoy, as Harry took him away. He threw a look over his shoulder back at her, grey eyes glittering with a conflicting mix of gratitude and resentment. Hermione wondered if he noticed the mingled pity and hate in _her _eyes. She wiped her wet face and gasped in a juddering breath, letting Ron lead her after Malfoy and Harry, towards the stairs and her cosy bedroom. Hermione couldn't help stopping at the base of the stairs, watching Harry indicate the open trapdoor and saw consternation cross Malfoy's gaunt features. The stairs to the cellar, Hermione knew were narrow and rickety, without any sort of handrail to aid descent. She wondered with perverse curiosity if Malfoy would be able to get down them okay, and didn't know what she hoped for.

Ron tugged at her, "Come on, 'Mione."

"Yeah…" she replied absently but didn't move, one hand wrapped around the doorframe into the dining room, still staring with wet brown eyes at Malfoy as he shrugged his coat reluctantly off his shoulders and began laying it over his handless arm. It looked so _strange_, so _jarring_, his sleeve rolled up so that the scarred stump poked out. It was neat but red, and maybe swollen a little, and Hermione wondered how long ago it had happened. Whether he maybe needed a medi-witch's attentions. Wondered briefly how it had happened – magic or ordinary means. Malfoy's words rang in her head; _he tore off my fingers_, and she thought _that_ was because of me. _That_ was my fault. The hand might not have been, but his fingers… She felt ill again.

Hermione might despise Malfoy, but she wouldn't wish _that_ on her worst enemy. She might have at one point – she had, in fact, and now she was ashamed of doing so – but that had been before she had seen the horrible reality. Malfoy looked up and saw her there, blatantly staring, and too late she whipped her head back with a gasp, but not before seeing the embarrassment – embarrassment? Why? His arm? Why did he care if Hermione saw it? – on his face.

"Hermione." Ron prodded her impatiently and she exhaled shortly, whispering equally impatiently, "_Wait_, Ron." When she poked her head back around a second later Malfoy was descending into the cellar, only his upper body visible and his foreshortened limb mostly covered by his thick coat folded over it, his descent awkward as though he hadn't had long to adjust to the loss.

"'Mione what _are_ you doing?"

"_Nothing_, Ron, just _shh_."

"His arm looks bloody _weird_, doesn't it?" Ron whispered, still not _shutting up_ and Hermione groaned to herself. Her eyes pinned to Malfoy's head blankly now as he disappeared out of view, his last words to her running through her head over and over. Not angry or spiteful, but brimming with remembered pain and fear – grief. And maybe a little resentment, but could Hermione really blame him? She remembered the way Malfoy had shaken like a leaf as he had spoken.

Voldemort…_tore them off_…and then Nagini…ate them…

"I think I'm going to be sick –" Hermione gasped, and then proceeded do exactly that, sending her half-digested dinner all over the floor and poor Ron's slippers.

"Oh _Merlin's balls_!" Ron swore and Hermione gulped down the sensation of more coming up, clamping one hand over her mouth and the other over her stomach. Her eyes screwed shut and watered, mouth salivating and stomach roiling. _Don't throw up, don't throw up, don't throw up_, she told herself vehemently, and after a moment the feeling gradually began to subside. She opened her eyes and looked at Ron, who had lifted a slippered foot and was scrutinizing the vomit splattered on it with horrified disgust. Hermione looked around the doorframe and through the archway, seeing that Malfoy and Harry were both gone. Harry must have shut the trapdoor behind him, because the floor was once more flat and even, only the square outline of the door showing it was ever there.

Ron was making noises of disgust and Hermione sighed, pulled her wand out and said apologetically, "_Evanesco_. Sorry, Ron."

"Thanks. No problem. I guess." His nose crinkled up as he examined his now clean slippers, and then his eyes flashed to hers, telegraphing worried confusion clearly.

"What was _that_ for?"

Hermione licked her lips and headed up the stairs, pulling a battered Muggle pack of gum out of her jeans pocket and chewing on a stick gratefully. Minty freshness obliterated the vomit-y taste in her mouth. She didn't know what to say to Ron, and she still kept hearing Malfoy's words and imagining how it must have happened. How awful it must have been for him. _Just like it was for me_, the thought popped into Hermione's head and she sniffed wetly. She was still crying, damnit.

"It looks so awful," she said over her shoulder at Ron as she crested the stairs. That didn't reveal too much about how she felt, but it was still true. Hermione didn't want to have to go into her feelings in great depth – there was no point – but she didn't want to _lie_ to Ron either. So she settled for withholding how she felt. That didn't count as lying.

"It is kind of gross," Ron agreed and Hermione let out a sobbing laugh of annoyance, "That's not what I meant, Ron. I meant it…it looks strange, yes, but I meant…" She pushed the door to her room open and snatched a tissue from the box on her dresser, slumping down on the side of her bed and wiping her nose.

"Oh, god." Hermione buried her face in her hands and started crying in earnest now. About everything. Everyone who had died. Her parents in Australia. Her torture at the Malfoy's. The nightmares that made sleeping a repeat of the torture. She was so _tired _these days, always so tired. She cried about Malfoy's fingers, torn off because he did what little he dared to help her. And it still hadn't been enough for her. She still hated him and she thought she had every damn right to. But his _hand_. God, it wasn't right, no matter how much Hermione despised him. And Hermione couldn't help feeling like it was her fault, somehow – not just the fingers but the hand. Maybe if Malfoy hadn't helped Hermione, you-know-who would never have started punishing Malfoy by taking his…his…body parts. She gulped down tears and snot as her stomach revolted again and tried to breath deeply.

Ron was standing nervously by her door, watching Hermione cry with wide, worried eyes.

"You 'right, 'Mione?" he asked hesitantly as her crying began to ease.

"Uh huh." She nodded, sitting on the edge of her bed and sniffling snottily, wiping her nose with an already saturated tissue. She pulled the crumpled ball away from her face and stared at it in frustration as it smeared more than it absorbed. Ron snagged the tissue box from her small bookshelf and handed it to her.

"Thanks," she mumbled nasally, plucking out a fresh tissue and blowing her nose loudly.

"It's not your fault, you know," Ron said conversationally, settling on the bed next to her. She leaned against him, pressing their sides together and he wrapped a comforting arm around her waist, her head nestling comfortably on his shoulder.

"What?" She knew what Ron was referring to, but she wanted to hear him say it aloud. Like a weird way of punishing herself; forcing her to picture it, to think about it.

"Malfoy's hand – his fingers, I mean." Ron squeezed Hermione and said surprisingly wisely, "He chose to be a Death Eater. If he hadn't been, then he wouldn't have lost his fingers, _or_ his hand. Bloody hell, 'Mione, there were dozens of choices he could have made over the past few years that would have meant he didn't lose his hand. It's not your fault."

He paused and added, sounding more like typical _Ron_, "Besides, it's _Malfoy_. If anyone deserved to lose a bloody hand, it's him."

"Ron!" Hermione gasped, shocked.

"He let them torture you, Hermione! I'm not going to feel sorry for the git!"

Hermione conceded the point with a half-choked sobbing laugh.

"But it's just so…he's only our age. It's…"

"Evil? Yeah, well, that's what you have to expect when you work for a dark wizard." Ron shrugged and nudged Hermione and she smiled despite everything. Sometimes Ron was a pain in the arse, but sometimes…sometimes he was just what she needed to cheer her up.

"It makes it all so real, somehow. I know people have been hurt and killed before now, but to see _Malfoy_ like that… It's…jarring." She confided. Hermione so badly wanted to just _hate_ Malfoy for what had happened at Malfoy Manor, but now she had started feeling sorry for him too. It wasn't fair. Why couldn't she just hate him? Why did he have to get injured and seem so _human_? She sat in comfortable silence with Ron for a while, soaking up his body warmth and his comfort. Things were so much better now they had both moved on. Ron as a friend was far nicer than Ron as a crush. He rubbed her back and rested his cheek on top of her head, and she burrowed her face against his shoulder and wrapped an arm around his waist. It as was intimate any embrace could be, and yet it didn't feel awkward anymore.

A rapping knock came at the door and Hermione heaved a deep breath and cleared her throat.

"Come in," she called and Harry poked his tousled head into the tiny room.

"Feeling better?" He crossed the room in three steps and sat on the other side of Hermione. She nodded and gave him a shaky smile, small but present.

"Yeah. A little." She saw Harry look across at Ron as though he didn't trust Hermione to tell him the truth, and felt Ron's short nod of confirmation. It should have annoyed Hermione, and usually it would have triggered a lecture, but tonight it just made her feel safe. Cared for. Sitting between her two boys. Hermione smiled again and this time it wasn't shaky, but unthinkingly happy.

"He's in the cellar then?" she asked at last.

"Locked up tight. He won't be getting out of there any time soon. Not that he has anywhere to go, even if he could." Harry said casually, hand moving to rub little soothing circles between Hermione's shoulder blades.

"Where's Narcissa?"

"In Remus and Tonks' room, in an induced sleep. She needs someone supervising her while she's asleep, and even with all the magical extensions we don't have enough rooms. I think we'll keep her asleep most of the time for the first few days, except for eating and the like." Harry took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes tiredly.

"Once Malfoy's proven he won't cause any trouble, we can put her down in the cellar with him. Let _him_ keep her under control."

Hermione nodded but couldn't think of anything to say. She nodded again, head feeling heavy and leaden as exhaustion crept up on her.

"Ron, we need to talk," Harry said, Hermione, still with her head resting on Ron's shoulder, saw Harry indicate her door with a flick of his hand. She blinked, sitting up straight and pulled strands of hair off her cheek where they had stuck, the air feeling strangely cold compared with the warmth of Ron's shoulder.

"You aren't going to sneak off and talk about the war without me, are you?" Hermione asked sharply and Harry's abashed look answered her question.

"You're tired and it's been a long evening… I didn't want to stress you," Harry said and Hermione glared at him. She didn't like being left out of plans regarding the war. So she might not go out on patrols or missions, but she could still be helpful in the planning stages. And she didn't like the way they tried to hide things from her, like she was fragile and too much stress might break her.

If Hermione had been going to break, she would have done so under Bellatrix's wand.

Bleary-eyed she frowned at the two boys – almost men now, really.

"If there's war planning to be done, I'm going to damn well be in on it," she snapped and the boys shared a nervous glance. They knew not to argue with Hermione when she swore. A 'bloody' usually equalled intense frustration, a 'damn' extreme feelings on a subject, and if Hermione said 'fuck' or any permutations thereof, Ron and Harry knew to duck for cover.

"Fine. It can wait 'til tomorrow then. You need sleep," Harry insisted and Hermione eyed him suspiciously, "You aren't going to just go and have the meeting behind my back once I'm asleep are you?"

"I swear, Hermione," Harry promised with half-amused frustration at her stubbornness, "We'll wait until tomorrow. It's not urgent."

"Right. Right then." Hermione nodded and her jaw cracked with an enormous yawn, eyes flicking to the small square magical clock atop her bookshelf.

11:07

AND ALL'S WELL

Its rectangular face read in glittering red letters and she snorted to herself. Stupid thing. It had been a Christmas present from Ron a couple of years ago, a cheap little trinket that Hermione suspected he had grabbed in a last minute panic. She had kept it though, because it had been a gift.

"I guess I'll see you in the morning."

Ron gave her a last squeeze before getting up and sloping over to the door, and Harry smiled at her, patted her hand, "Night, Hermione."

"Night Harry, night Ron," Hermione answered and when they had left she flopped back on her bed and heaved an enormous sigh.

It was going to be strange, having Malfoy around. Hermione guessed they couldn't keep him locked up in the dank cellar forever, not if he proved trustworthy. So that probably meant having him around the house, eventually. She would have to see him every single day. She would have to eat meals with him and spend long evenings listening to the wireless with him in the room. She stared up at the plain white ceiling above her, twirling her wand lazily back and forth between her hands and picturing the days and nights that lay ahead. Things were stressful enough without Malfoy hanging around. There were so many ways in which Malfoy's presence could screw things up, the most likely being he and Ron attempting to actually murder each other. But there was also the fact that seeing him brought back her memories of the torture; not to mention the hot flush of guilt and pity mingled with anger that he seemed to evoke in her. Hermione didn't like it at all. Feeling like she _wanted_ to hate him but instead…feeling sorry for him. It made her miserable and muddled, and whenever she thought about his amputated hand, empathy made her stomach twist unpleasantly.

Hermione groaned aloud and rolled onto her stomach on her bed, burying her face in her pillows. This was awful. It couldn't get any worse.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ Firstly lovely readers, pretty-please leave me a _review_ – they give me the happy warm fuzzies, and I write better with warm fuzzies in my belly ^_^

Secondly, I have an _important_ question to ask all of you lovely readers. The next chapter will be going up in the next two to four days, and I'm giving you a choice - would you like it to be written from Draco's POV, or to continue with Hermione's POV? There are pros and cons to each.

With Hermione's POV we move further ahead in the story timeline (three days after Draco's arrival in Godric's Hollow), and have Hermione/Draco interaction. It would also probably be updated quicker as I've already got a chapter from her POV mostly written.

With Draco's POV we wouldn't move much further ahead in the story but would instead most likely spend some time looking _back_, at what happened to him between Hermione's torture and the present. And it _would_ be nice to get some of the gory details of what happened to Draco, wouldn't it? Explore his feelings about being disowned and mutilated and being basically forced to surrender himself to the Order, maybe?

I lean towards Draco's POV, myself, but it's up to you :) What do you want to read?


	4. No Use Pretending

_Author's Note: _Thank you to those who have followed, favourited, and reviewed. I love your wonderful reviews so, so much :D

This chapter is entirely from Draco's POV, and contains much inner monologue-ing, soul-crushing despair, and misery :(

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Chapter Three**_

Draco didn't bothering turning around to watch as Potter thundered back up the cellar steps. Potter had seemed particularly self-satisfied, having finished entertaining Draco with a lecture on the importance of good behaviour that had dragged on and on for a good ten minutes at least.

"If you try anything, _anything_ at all, you will be out of here faster than you can blink, Malfoy," Potter had finished, with an attempt at intimidation that had failed miserably. Draco had experienced enough pain and terror in his life now that Potter couldn't frighten him with a few angry words. If Draco hadn't been exhausted, in pain, half-starved and admittedly fearful of losing this tenuous safety, he would have laughed at Potter's sanctimonious speech. But he _was_ all those things, and so he just stood there with his right arm tucked against his body protectively and listened to the cellar door thud shut behind Potter. He was left alone; locked up tight in a filthy rat hole. Draco grudgingly admitted to himself that it was better than being in the Dark Lord's hands. He couldn't repress a shiver of sick fear at the mere thought.

A dim orb of bluish light lit the long, low-ceilinged space he stood within, and Draco surveyed his self-inflicted prison with dull eyes. Nothing but dirt and four walls, as far as he could tell. He scoffed bitterly. The Order fancied themselves to be so good, so righteous, and they couldn't even provide him with a bed? Even the Dark Lord had beds in most of his dungeon cells. Although Draco thought perhaps he'd rather have no bed and no torture. The torture was a bit of a deal-breaker, in his experience. He looked around for a likely place to sit, but it all looked the same. In the end he was simply too tired to stand any longer and stumbled to a corner of the cellar, slumping back against the junction of the two walls and sliding slowly down. It was cold on the dirt, a draught whisking along the ground and chilling him further and Draco shivered, awkwardly pulling his coat around him and huddling up to conserve body heat.

And now there was nothing for Draco to do but sit and think. Sit and stew in his weak emotions – fear and uncertainty and resentment. He swallowed and winced; his throat was parched but in looking around he couldn't see any sort of drink available. No one seemed to have thought to provide the _prisoner_ with water. He _could_ have given them the benefit of the doubt and assumed that due to the unexpected nature of his arrival they hadn't thought of such things, but instead he just swore bitterly and his resentment and impotent anger grew.

Draco was just Death Eater scum to them; why would they care? Except that _wasn't_ who he was – he had never been just that. There had been…extenuating circumstances, that had given him no choice but to do as his father wanted. All Draco's life, all he had ever done was what his father wanted of him. Nobody crossed Lucius Malfoy – not even his own son. Draco hadn't _thought_ his father would treat Draco's disobedience with violence, but a small voice inside him had told him not to test that theory. Of course, now his theory had been tested, and he knew exactly what his father would do in reaction to Draco's disobedience, didn't he? He swallowed again and his eyes scanned the cellar for something he might have missed.

His eyes lit on a bucket down the other end of the cellar. A bucket? Haughty indignation flared up automatically – how dared they treat a Malfoy like this? What did they think he was – an animal to be fed from a trough? And then the indignation died down to a low smoulder as Draco remembered exactly why they dared. He was nothing now – since Lucius had disowned him he wasn't a Malfoy any more. He was a nothing. A snivelling maimed nothing that had torn his mother away from her husband and thrown her and himself on the mercy of the Order of the Phoenix. Draco rubbed his left and only hand across his face tiredly and told himself to never forget exactly what he was now. It hurt too much when he thought of himself as a Malfoy, as a promising young Death Eater, only to remember he was no long either of those things. He told himself he had to be smart, to face reality, no matter how much it stung him. His pride would be the undoing of him, and yet Draco wanted to cling to the shreds of it – it and his mother were all he had left.

He struggled to his feet, "Water is water," he mumbled to himself, and crossed the long expanse of floor with dragging, tired steps. But when he got to the bucket, Draco could see it was empty. No cold, refreshing water. Just an empty bucket, and something white catching the light behind it…? He bent down and picked up the white thing, and it was soft in his hands. Muggle brand toilet paper? He recognised it from his recent few days on the run – using filthy muggle public toilets. Draco blinked and stared back at the empty bucket, tired grey eyes eloquent with contempt.

"Oh, you have got to be fucking _kidding_ me." He swore and with a spasm of anger threw the roll of toilet paper against the wall as hard as he could, kicked the bucket and sent it flying to join the toilet paper with a violent clatter.

"Fuck. _Fuck_. _Fuck!_" he hissed and ran his fingers through his hair; as unkempt and greasy as Snape's, and he hated the feel of it.

Merlin, was this what Draco's life was going to consist of now now?

Sleeping on the floor in a bloody cellar, using a bucket for a loo, and having to thank the Order for the _privilege_? For a brief moment Draco wondered if staying out of the Dark Lord's hands was worth this indignity. Maybe he and his mother could find refuge elsewhere. Flee the country. Hide. And then Draco thought of how the Dark Lord had threatened to disfigure and then kill his mother. He couldn't risk it. He needed the Order's protection.

"_Fuck_," he half-sobbed and retrieved the bucket and toilet paper, setting them both neatly back where he'd found them. It took longer than it would have before he had lost his hand. Everything did. He kept going to use it, and then remembering it wasn't there anymore, and a choked feeling would clog in his throat, his eyes would prickle with tears he would never shed in front of anyone else. He had cried when the Dark Lord had ordered his hand to be amputated, cried like a weakling and they had all laughed at him, mocked him. After that he had never cried again, no matter _what_ they had done. He had saved his tears until he had been in his bedroom alone, trying to heal his injuries with a wand he had stolen from the body of a mudblood the Dark Lord had kept strung up in the dining room.

He sat down by the bucket and wiped away the tears that had started trickling down his cheeks with the memories. Once his bloody brain began remembering, it wouldn't stop. He tried to clear his thoughts, to calm his strained emotions, and eventually succeeded in making his mind go blessedly blank, knees drawn up to his chest and forehead resting on them. His stump made him excruciatingly aware of its presence with a tearing, burning pain that never really went away, and his missing hand seared with ghostly pain, as though his body hadn't realised the damn thing was gone yet. Draco could never feel simply peaceful anymore; he was no longer allowed that, his every moment strung through with hurt. It filled him with utter despair that things could ever get better, and the only thing that kept Draco breathing from one second to the next in this hell was his mother. Keeping her safe. Convincing her that he had done the right thing in taking her away from his father. That he had just been trying to protect her.

He fell into a restless doze, and in his dreams Draco felt her cool, gentle hands stroking his hair off his forehead, her soft voice whispering comfort. In his dream he was clean and his hair shiny and smelling of hair potion. He was dressed in perfectly pressed and tailored clothes, and he lay on a chaise lounge in his bedroom suite, a light rug over him. His mother sat gracefully on a high-backed chair to his left, smiling down at him. Draco was _home_, in the Manor, and the Dark Lord and all his followers were _gone_; the sanctity of his home restored to him. Gone? Had they ever been here? Draco tried to think but his mind seemed clouded over.

"I – am I sick mother?" he asked her, confused as to why he was at home with her tending to him when he should be at Hogwarts. Draco's voice sounded thin and distant to his ears and he frowned, puzzled.

"Hush, Draco. You've been a little ill, that's all. Don't you remember?" Narcissa smiled at him and drew the rug up a bit further, fussing over him with quiet content, and her face shone with motherly love. Draco smiled in return. It was nice to see her happy. For so long she had been worn and strained, nerves worn to a fraying thread…hadn't she? He couldn't seem to remember anything at all.

"But you're better now, Draco. You're going to be just fine," Narcissa continued and her hand fell from his forehead to his right shoulder, patting it softly. Draco frowned, he still couldn't recall being sick. But that didn't matter now. He was at home, with his mother – the details didn't matter, weren't important. He brushed his confusion away like cobwebs. This illness he'd apparently had must have given him memory loss, he decided blithely.

"I love you very much, Draco. You know that, don't you?" Narcissa asked him, her words more demonstrative than usual. Draco nodded, flushing with the embarrassment of most teenage boys when their mother's expressed their love.

"I know, mother," he mumbled and reached out to pat her hand with awkward affection.

Pain _raged_ in Draco's stump and he woke with a hoarse scream, biting his lip as tears streamed from his eyes at the shocking agony. The dream was torn from him and he sat panting from the pain in the bleakness of reality.

"_Fuck!_" Draco bit out with tears dripping from his pointed chin as he hugged his arm carefully to himself and rocked back and forth, trying not to scream again in case the sound could be heard upstairs. Draco whimpered quietly instead, a litany of swear words spilling raggedly from his lips. His mouth tasted of blood and he realised he must have bitten his lip so hard he'd broken the skin. He couldn't feel the wound; the pain from his stump obliterated everything else. It was only when the pain began to subside to a manageable level that he figured out what had happened.

He must have reached out in his sleep, thinking he was reaching out to his mother – Merlin how fucking _weak_, how _pathetic_ – and instead his stump had hit the bloody _bucket_. Draco snorted with half-hysterical laughter as his fragile emotions crumbled in the face of his pain and dashed, dreaming hopes.

"The bucket. The damned _bucket_," he muttered disbelievingly, and shook his head, still clutching his maimed arm carefully to his chest, tears leaking from his eyes as he chuckled hoarsely. It all seemed just so bitterly, desperately hilarious. It was like the world was out to get him. Finally feeling some paltry happiness, if only in a dream, only to injure himself on the bucket the Order expected him to _shit_ in. Draco's laughter sputtered into nothingness, pained and humourless smile fading from his lips.

He wanted to die.

# # #

Draco must have fallen asleep again, and slept for quite some time from the feel of his stiff, aching muscles. He didn't remember any dreams, and he was glad for _that_ at least. It had been the sound of the trapdoor falling shut that had woken him, and when he squinted with bleary eyes toward the door, he saw something sitting at the top of the stairs.

"Oh Merlin, please let it be water," he whispered with dry, cracking lips, struggling one-handed to his feet. He didn't even need to piss, he was that dehydrated. Any longer, and he was going to have to stifle what little pride he had left and bang on the cellar door until someone heard him; beg for the precious liquid if he had to. Part of Draco still wished he was dead, wanted to just _die_, but most of him still felt that instinct of self-preservation. That stupid, unfounded hope that perhaps – perhaps – things might get better.

The coat fell from his shoulders as he stood and he tripped on it, almost falling over, and stood frozen with terror as he realised if he had fallen he would have automatically put out his right arm to try and save himself. Everything he did, it was all tainted by this injury and the pain and disability it created. Draco had been conditioned to always fear the possibility of pain, the fear hovering in the back of his mind constantly. Would he be cursed just for someone's casual fun? Beaten the way muggles hurt each other, with fists and feet? Knock his stump on something and set of a blossom of white-hot pain? Be flayed or burnt or spat upon? The Dark Lord and his followers had turned Draco into someone who cowered and shivered like a beaten house elf at the mere possibility of pain, because he had come to expect that pain was inevitable. There was no avoiding it, no running from it, no preventing it from happening. For the past month, Draco's life had been _pain_.

_I _didn't_ fall. I _didn't_ hurt myself. I'm fine. Stop being so weak. Stop being such a fucking _coward_!_

Draco scooped up his coat in his cold-stiffened left hand and slipped it around his shoulders again – afraid to put his right arm through the sleeve in case it hurt. Actually, he knew it would hurt, he just didn't know how _much_. And he didn't care to find out. Draco's mouth was so dry – no saliva to even wet his lips with, and his head pounded blindingly with a dehydration-induced headache that a simple potion could have fixed. But he had no potions. No wand. Nothing. Draco stumbled halfway up the cellar steps and fell heavily on his left hand and his chest, remembering at the last second to stick his right arm out to the side, thank Merlin, the fall painfully jarring. He let his cheek rest where it had landed on the edge of a rough wooden step and closed his eyes, just breathing. He went the rest of the way up the stairs bent over, with his hand always touching the stairs to balance himself. He didn't want to risk falling again. Draco wanted to cry at the new indignity forced upon him, and tried to just be glad there was no one there to see him like this.

The objects left on the stairs had been an enormous bowl of muesli and a tall glass of orange juice on a tray, and a three litre container of what the printed muggle label said was Evans' 100% Pure Mineral Water. Draco unscrewed the fiddly muggle lid and sniffed the clear liquid inside. It smelt like water, which was to say, nothing. He tried a little bit, and the trickle ran over his tongue and down his parched throat like cool bliss.

"Oh, fuck," he breathed and smiled, and gulped down more. It was so _good_. He made himself stop before he'd drunk too much; he didn't want to make himself sick with it, and he should probably ration it in case he didn't get any more for a while. Merlin only knew what the Order were planning to do with him – if the standard of his dwellings were any indication of their attitude toward him, they very well might not bother feeding him every day. _Bastards_.

Draco sat awkwardly on the stairs and started on the bowl of muesli. It too tasted disproportionately delicious; Draco had not only been thirsty, he had been so hungry nearly anything would have tasted good. He told himself that he would only eat half of it, and save the rest for later, just in case. That didn't work out the way he planned – he'd wolfed the bloody lot down before he could stop himself. He drank all the orange juice and left the empty plate and glass on the stairs where he had found them, clambering back down with the bottle of water. He was just wondering where to sit, "Oh I have so many choices. That patch of dirt over there? Or maybe that corner there? Or that… Oh _fucking bloody hell_," Draco's sarcastic monologue was cut off abruptly as he realised he needed to use the bucket. He glared at the ceiling of the cellar a few inches above his head, "I don't fucking _care_ if you're protecting me and mother from the Dark Lord," he muttered vehemently, cheeks burning with humiliation, "I bloody _despise_ you all."

# # #

The day passed slowly with no way to keep track of the time and nothing to do to entertain himself, and as he sat huddled back in a corner at the other end of the room from the bucket Draco found himself thinking of the one person he had tried not to think about.

Know-it-all goody-good Hermione fucking Granger.

The horrified expression on her face when she had thought Draco had lost his hand because of her had been oddly gratifying. Part of that sense of gratification, however, had not been pleasure in making her feel awful, but the fact that she had cared. Someone had cared about Draco, cared about what had happened to him. No one had done that in a long time, not even his mother. For a moment, Draco had been grateful to Granger for giving a fuck about him. He had, of course, quashed the feeling quickly. But how fucking far had Draco fallen, that he, a Malfoy, a pureblood, had been grateful for Granger's sympathy, even for a second? He had recovered his distance from her by telling her about how he had lost his fingers, trying to enjoy the hurt and guilt in her eyes.

It hadn't been as satisfying as he'd thought it would be. He couldn't take pleasure in hurting people now. He had seen too much suffering caused to others – had experienced it himself – and now, beneath his pale attempts to act like his old self, Draco mostly just felt tired, sick of it all.

Draco had told her what had happened, voice betraying his feelings, and she had begun to say his name. Not Malfoy, but Draco. Draco – what she had said when Aunt Bella had been torturing her. The name she had cried when she had begged him to help her, to kill her. The memory was burnt into his brain and it made him feel sick to his stomach. Standing there pretending to be undisturbed by the suffering Aunt Bella was putting Granger through and failing miserably. _Wanting_ to enjoy the torture. He remembered _wanting_ to enjoy it at first, and now that he had experienced what Hermione had been through and worse, he wondered how he could have ever been so stupid, so thoughtlessly cruel.

But that desire to take pleasure in the torture had vanished when Aunt Bellatrix had encourage Draco to rape Hermione. The way she had implied it, just so casually…like Draco would be pleased by the offer. Like he would thank Aunt Bella and then happily violate the girl he had known at school in front of his family. He hadn't been able to understand why Aunt Bella would think he would want to _do_ something like that. Something so _vile_…something…something Draco knew for a fact that his own father took part in.

Everything had fallen apart right then. Draco's world had shattered in an instant as something clicked in his head and Draco had seen – really seen – what he was a part of. It wasn't a pretty picture. Suddenly, Draco hadn't wanted to enjoy Hermione's torture anymore. Instead he had wanted to run away, wanted to wash in scalding hot water and try to cleanse himself of the stains that he knew would never come off. He had wanted to free Hermione, to curse Aunt Bella and give her a taste of her own fucking medicine…but he had been too cowardly to do any of that.

He hadn't wanted to lose everything that came along with being a Death Eater. He hadn't wanted to lose his mother and father, his status in the wizarding community – his whole life, everything he knew and everything he had ever known. At least, he tried to tell himself, sitting in the Order's cellar and shaking from the cold that had seeped into his very bones, at least he had let her go.

It had been that day in his home with Granger that things had all fallen apart for him. It had been Hermione Granger who had torn his world to pieces, and Draco didn't know if he should thank her or kill her for it. Now he truly realised how _wrong_ he had been, how _evil_ the Dark Lord's cause was, Draco suspected he should thank her. But that would never happen, because even though a part of Draco was _glad_ he had realised how wrong he had been, a larger part resented her for taking his world away from him. A world where he had believed in blood purity and wizard superiority over muggles, where he had seen his father as a great if frightening hero, and the Dark Lord as a leader for a true cause. Granger had tainted that world, so that Draco could never be happy being a Death Eater, could never salve his conscience over evil deeds done, never stand by and just watch another person get tortured without _hating_ himself. She had taken his life and his home from him, and even though Draco knew it wasn't her fault, he hated her for it.

He had inflicted harm on muggles and mudbloods before the day he had seen Hermione tortured – never tortured them to the extent his Aunt Bella had them, but he had _hurt_ them. Made them suffer and writhe before him. He had felt power rushing through him as they begged for him to stop, and he had fed on that perverse sense of power. _Relished_ it. _Revelled_ in it.

He dragged his thoughts away from what he had been like _before_, his mind returning to last night. Returning to the moment when he had told Granger of Nagini's _snack_. How she had cried his name, just like…and then clamped her hands over her mouth and let out a sob like her heart was breaking for him. Granger should have hated him, she shouldn't have cared – and yet she did. She had felt guilt. And Merlin _damn_ her, she had felt _pity_. That had stung, and to distance himself from that pity, Draco had automatically pretended to be pleased by her hurt; he was excellent at assuming masks, the practice essential around the other Death Eaters. One show of weakness and they would tear you apart, so constantly, no matter what you might be feeling, you had to appear perfectly in control. Strong. So he had assumed an expression of casual callous amusement and watched the hurt in her eyes grow and twist into confused guilt and hate, his heart sitting in his chest like a stone.

Merlin, he was so _sick_ of his life.

Draco buried his head against his knees and distracted himself with thoughts of more prosaic things. He listed his complaints in his mind. He wished like hell that the dirt floor wasn't quite so hard; his arse was half numb, and where it wasn't numb it was sore. He felt like there wasn't a single part of him that didn't ache. He was hungry again. His body's ghostly memory of fingers burnt and itched like mad. But of course, Draco couldn't scratch what wasn't there. He lifted his head and stared at the stump numbly, grey eyes clouded and hopeless. He still found it hard to believe that…that his hand was never going to be there again. This, this injury – it was for life. No matter what happened to him, no matter if things miraculously turned out good for him, Draco would still spend his life as a fucking cripple. He swore and grasped at the thin air where his hand should be in a vain attempt to relieve the phantom itch, but there was no relief and unshed tears and dull anger fogged his vision. He shut his eyes and buried his head back against his knees, trying not to think.

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_Author's Note:_ So, what did you think? _Review_ please and feed my starving muse :) My muse is soo huuungry *hopeful face*

I hope the chapter wasn't boring, what with all the inner monologue and soul-searching business going on, but it's Draco stuck down in a cellar by himself…there's not a lot of action happening, understandably. So we get a look at Draco's thoughts, motivations – a little how and why he's changed and is continuing to change, and memories, the dream, and the indignity of being a despised captive. And oh, what indignities…

Poor Draco :( Things _really_ suck for him right now… But, oh, how I love tormenting him and making his life a horrible misery. I am an evil, twisted puppet-master.

A not on Draco's mental state/ attitude – he's definitely been altered by what's happened to him and what he's seen happen to others around him. He's also depressed, feels hopeless and is miserable and a little scared; but there is still a part of him that wants to be the snarky, arrogant Draco Malfoy he used to be, and is still struggling to accept the change in his views and the impact that change has had on his life. So he's a bit torn and confused, to say the least.

Anyway, long ramble over…

Coming up next chapter, Hermione gets roped into taking Draco his dinner… Awkwardness and heart-wrenching-ness ensues, and Hermione begins to unwillingly see Draco in a slightly different light…


	5. Dead Man Walking

_Author's Note: _ You folks who review, you guys _rock_. Much love for you all! On with the story I say!

_Enjoy!_

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_**Chapter Four**_

Hermione's eyes kept going to the shape of the trapdoor in the floor while she waited for Ginny to figure out what the rune Hermione had sketched meant. It was disconcerting, knowing that Draco was sitting down there in the dim, dank cellar – had been, for the past three days now, and Hermione, thankfully, hadn't seen him. But despite telling herself she was glad she'd had nothing to do with him, her eyes kept going to the trapdoor, and she kept finding herself wondering if he was all right. It was disconcerting and irritating, and she heaved a sigh, turning her attention back to Ginny.

"So this one means…?" Hermione prompted patiently.

"Oh, _I_ don't bloody know!" Ginny threw her quill down and folded her arms, leaning back in her chair with a long-suffering scowl.

"Language, Ginevra!" Mrs Weasley reprimanded from the kitchen that adjoined the dining room, where she orchestrated the preparation of the evening meal, wand in hand. Tonight it was roast chicken, potatoes, carrots and beetroot with onion gravy, and the scent of roasted chicken was wafting thick and delicious through the air. Hermione's stomach growled at her.

"Sorry, mum." Ginny frowned at the textbook in front of her, "I hate runes. Stupid bl– stupid subject," the younger girl corrected herself before she swore again and risked her mother's wrath, and Hermione smiled faintly.

"I suppose we can take a break. It's nearly tea time anyway."

Ginny was not placated by a mere break.

"I don't see why I have to study at all! It's not like any of these," she waved a hand at the battered textbooks strewn over the table, "Will be useful if I get attacked. Or caught."

"Ginny!" Mrs Weasley's voice scalded the air.

"I know, mum. I will not be attacked. I will not be caught. _Because_, I will not stir a step outside this house if I know what's good for me," Ginny called back the obviously oft-repeated words in a staccato tone and grinned at Hermione, mouthing, "_Mothers_," silently and rolling her eyes with frustrated affection.

"The war will be over one day, and it will make things easier for you if you've finished your schooling," Hermione answered responsibly, although she made sure to grin back at Ginny.

"Not that I'm much of a teacher…"

"Well you're _miles_ better than Professor Binns," Ginny replied affably and Hermione snorted.

"A _turnip_ would make a better teacher than _Professor Binns_."

"Well you're not a turnip at any rate." Ginny laid her quill aside and snapped her textbook shut.

"Oh good." Mrs Weasley bustled over with a plate in her hands, face flushed and hair coming loose in fluffy tendrils around her face.

"Ginny dear, could you take Draco's dinner down to him? And Hermione, would you mind very much setting the table for me?" She shoved the heaping plate of roast dinner into Ginny's hands.

"Merlin's beard, mum, he's not a giant."

"He's too skinny," Mrs Weasley answered, wiping her hands on a tea towel and hurrying back into the kitchen, "He needs feeding up."

Hermione finished stacking the textbooks on the side table in two neat piles and smirked at Ginny, "Sometimes I wonder if your mother would insist on feeding you-know-who up with comfort food if she got the chance."

Ginny grimaced and laughed, "I don't think she'd go quite _that _far."

Hermione let the tablecloth flutter down over the table and then whipped out her wand and with a few words and a flick of her wand, the china cabinet open and a stream of placemats and cutlery came dancing out. When they had all settled gently down on the long table Hermione looked across and saw Ginny hovering by the trapdoor. Ginny's face was a study in sullen reluctance, and she was glaring at the trapdoor as though she was trying to set the occupant alight with her mind. Hermione bit her lip. She knew how Ginny felt, and yet seeing the loathing on Ginny's face made her – yet again – feel a little sorry for Malfoy.

"Hermione…" Ginny whinged, shooting hopeful, pleading eyes at the older witch and Hermione felt herself tense slightly.

"What?" she asked, even though she knew what Ginny wanted her to do.

"Could you take this down to the ferret? Please? If I see him I'm going to hex him, I know it. Arrogant, nasty, evil," and Ginny's voice dropped to a whisper and she peered in the direction of the kitchen and her mother, "_Bastard_."

Hermione cringed inwardly, and she had to remind herself that Ginny had only gotten a very vague and slightly untruthful outline of Hermione, Ron and Harry's imprisonment at the Malfoy's. Mrs Weasley hadn't wanted Ginny to know what had happened, and Hermione hadn't been eager to tell. So Ginny had no idea that, for Hermione, seeing Malfoy made the memories flood back, made her skin crawl with all sorts of conflicting and horrible emotions that Hermione would rather pretend didn't exist. Hermione swallowed hard and tried to pull herself back together before she started shaking or crying, noticing Ginny's curious, uncomprehending eyes on her.

"Are you okay, Hermione?"

"I don't like him either, you know."

"Please…?" Ginny put on her sweetest, most hopeful face and Hermione let out a long-suffering sigh, and found herself saying without even deciding to consciously, "All right then, Ginny. I'll do it."

Hermione took the plate from Ginny and cast a _lumos_ in case it was too dark down there – she didn't want to take a spill down the steps - balancing the plate in one hand and clutching her wand tightly in the other. And as she did so, she found herself wondering _why_ she always did this sort of thing. If someone asked her to help, it was like she couldn't stop herself from jumping in to fix the problem. Which was normally fine and great, and ended up with Hermione feeling good about herself and the problem, whatever it might be, solved…although admittedly sometimes it just seemed to irritate people… But anyway, she directed her jittery mind back on track, this time… Hermione didn't think it was going to end with her feeling helpful and good about herself. Right now she just felt sick with nerves.

Ginny opened up the trapdoor and gave Hermione a grateful smile, "You're a lifesaver, Hermione. I owe you one."

"Yes, you do." Hermione muttered under her breath too low for Ginny to hear as she managed a faint echo of Ginny's bright smile, and began descending slowly down the cellar steps. She told herself that this was a _good_ thing. She couldn't avoid Malfoy forever; she had to – what was the word? Desensitise, that was it – she had to desensitise herself to having him around her. She couldn't freeze up and feel panicky every time he was in the same room as her. And there was no time like the present.

"Hah," she said sarcastically in a low voice, "How about never?" That would certainly be preferable.

But she clenched her jaw with stubborn determination, and marched the rest of the way down the steps as quickly as she could without slipping and tumbling down to the bottom. The cellar was dim, a single orb of light floating in the middle of the low ceiling and casting a faint bluish light. Hermione stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked around, her heart racing unsteadily in her chest and her breath coming shallow and quick.

"Malfoy?" she asked and got no answer, and her pulse ratcheted up another notch. She told herself that he hadn't tried anything since he'd turned himself over to the Order, and he wouldn't be stupid enough to do so now. But that didn't help her feelings of panic when the trapdoor closed with a thunk and Hermione whirled around to stare up at the closed door with panicked eyes, nearly tipping Malfoy's dinner off the plate.

"Calm _down_," she told herself firmly, and then, "Talking to yourself now, Granger?" Malfoy's voice cut through the air and Hermione shrieked breathily before she could stop herself, jumping half out of her skin.

She stared around the room, gasping and shaking and furious with him for frightening her. And then she saw him.

Malfoy was slumped in one corner of the long, low cellar on the packed dirt floor, knees up and his left arm wrapped around them, the other, maimed, arm tucked between his knees and his body. Malfoy's coat was around his shoulders and yet he looked cold, face paler than usual and still too thin, the arm that hugged his knees trembling a little. Whether his shaking was from the cold or something else, Hermione couldn't tell. His clothes were still filthy – no one had even bothered to cast an _evanesco_, it seemed, let alone let him use the bathroom. Hermione bit her lip in consternation. There was no bedding of any sort that she could see in the dim blue light, no table and chair to eat at, and as she looked around she saw a bucket down the other end of the cellar and blushed hotly. _No_, she thought desperately, _that couldn't be for… Oh my god_. Thiswas how the Order imprisoned people who willingly surrendered?

The heat from Hermione's embarrassed blush was channelled into the same hot anger at any injustice or unfairness that had fuelled her to form SPEW back at school.

"I – uh – I have dinner." She held out the plate stupidly, too shocked and furious to bite back at Malfoy's snark, and he blinked his grey eyes in dull confusion.

"I can see that," Malfoy said and Hermione could tell he was trying to be an arse, but he only sounded tired; his voice thin and shaky as he huddled within his coat.

"Do you want it or not?" She snapped and felt bad as soon as the words left her mouth. _Way to kick him when he's down_, she chided herself sharply, and took a few hesitant steps closer to him. She was only a couple of metres away now, and she could see clearly what a bad way he was in. Not physically, so much. But his slumped, defeated posture and the beaten way he huddled in on himself told Hermione all she needed to know. She had probably looked like that herself, in the days after the…incident… at Malfoy's home.

Thinking of the torture made her mind jitter with the creeping fog of panic and Hermione pictured it again. Not as badly as she had the last few times she had seen Malfoy, but it still wasn't pleasant. She could almost feel the Manor's floor hard under her back as she stared down at him and remembered when she had stared _up_ at him –had_ begged_. He had seen Hermione at her most nakedly vulnerable, begging and pleading with him. Exposing herself in a way more intimate than being literally naked in front of him would have done so.

"_Please! _Please_, Draco! I'm begging you _please_ just kill me. Just kill me. _Please_."_

"Granger?" His uneasy voice shattered the memory and suddenly Hermione was back in the cellar in front of him, still clutching Malfoy's dinner and her wand.

""Do you want your bloody food, Malfoy, or not?" she half-snarled, still caught up in the emotions her memories evoked in her. Malfoy flinched and then tried to recover himself, adjusting his coat around him with his one hand and running his fingers though his messy hair in an attempt at unruffled dignity. He gave it up after a moment, as Hermione stared at him and fumed quietly.

"No. It's fine. Don't bother," he answered at last, voice lifeless, and rested the side of his head against the wall, his eyes fluttering shut.

A thread of worry coiled through Hermione. He didn't seem well at all – emotionally or mentally unwell, not physically. _Physically_, he seemed as well as a person could be in his situation, which admittedly wasn't that healthy. There was something in his defeated mien though, which made her feel truly concerned for him. Hermione remembered all too well what the aftermath of her time in the Manor had been like. There had been days where she hadn't even gotten out of bed, huddled under her blankets and shutting out the world. She probably hadn't seemed much different to how he did right now – horribly depressed and internalising everything. The difference had been that _she'd_ had Harry and Ron to help her get through the initial repercussions. Malfoy had no one. Oh, _damnit_, Hermione hated feeling empathy toward Malfoy, and it was happening way too often lately. The dividing line between the good guys and the bad guys, the humans and the human monsters – it suddenly seemed so blurred.

It was hard to hate Malfoy when he looked so…tired.

"For Merlin's sake, don't be stupid, Malfoy! You have to eat," she snapped again and saw Malfoy smile slightly.

"You're a fucking bossy bitch aren't you, Granger?" he commented without rancour and Hermione blinked, taken aback. _A bossy…?_

"Fine then, Malfoy. Starve yourself, for all I care." She bent down and shoved the plate on the ground with more force than needed, the chicken breast sliding right off the plate. Hermione caught Malfoy's quick inhalation of dismay as the meat landed on the dirt. She swore inwardly and vacillated for a moment, before picking the chicken breast up between finger and thumb, "_Evanesco_," she said swiftly and dropped it back onto the plate and whirled away from him, heading for the stairs without another word.

Hermione couldn't take anymore of this.

Five minutes with Malfoy and Hermione was wound tighter than a spring; she could _feel_ the stress tension settling into her shoulders and neck. She was halfway up the steps and eager to be out when Malfoy's voice interrupted the sound of her feet clumping up the steps. Oh, Ginny was going to _owe_ Hermione, all right.

"Granger. Granger, is my mother awake? Is she okay?"

Hermione paused and swung around to look at Malfoy's face – all trace of arrogance was gone, his expression one of humble pleading. It was so strange to see Malfoy showing sides of himself other than _irritating nasty git_ or _Death Eater in training_. Hermione was seeing him as a worried son, and the love for his mother was easy to read, printed all over his face as it was.

"I'm sorry I called you a bitch," he bit his lip, "I'm really sorry."

Hermione could tell how hard it was for him to apologise; forcing himself to do it to try to get her to divulge information about Narcissa.

"You don't need to butter me up to get me to tell you how your mother is, Malfoy. Unlike you, I'm not a heartless arsehole." Hermione couldn't resist jabbing at him. She half-hoped he'd jab back, but he just took her words in and bowed under their weight. She knew it was because she was _right_ but she still felt a twinge of guilt for saying it. This wasn't who Hermione was – she wasn't a person who hurt others, especially when they couldn't fight back, so to speak. Or at least, that wasn't the person she wanted to be. That would make her just like _him_, or at least, just like he _had_ been. She wasn't sure who or what he was now that everything had changed so suddenly. Hermione drew a deep breath, summoned all her maturity, and tried to be fair – to not torment Malfoy by withholding information regarding something as obviously important to him as his mother's safety.

"She's fine. We've been keeping her in a magically induced sleep since removing the _Imperius_," she saw Malfoy look up at her sharply, a little life springing into his eyes in the form of worry for his mother. It wasn't usually recommended to keep someone sedated magically for too long; it had been known to cause side effects that weren't desirable.

"…Because we can't afford the time and effort to deal with her if she doesn't want to be here and tries to escape or fight us. But we've been looking after her, and she's okay, and we'll be waking her up soon, I think. You – you don't need to worry, Malfoy," Hermione continued reassuringly, feeling the oddest compulsion to be gentle with him, and Malfoy let out a breath and nodded.

"That's…that's good."

She stood awkwardly on the steps, wand in hand and not sure what to do with the other one, not sure what she was supposed to do now. Say goodbye? Just leave?

"Can – can I see her after you wake her up?" Malfoy looked up at her with his grey eyes tinted with blue in the light the orb cast, sounding very young and unsure, and Hermione shifted uncomfortably on her feet. She _really_ didn't like seeing him like this. A Malfoy that was being a horrible git? – _That_ she knew how to deal with. But this new version of him… Hermione was off-balance and at a loss.

"I – I don't know. That's not up to me."

"Oh." Malfoy's eyes dropped from hers finally, and Hermione drew in a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

"Sorry," she said automatically and didn't want to take it back. It sounded right somehow, the one word hanging in the air between them.

He licked his lips, "Can you tell her I'm okay?"

Hermione nodded silently. He seemed just like any other boy her age, frightened and alone, trapped in an awful situation because of his own mistakes and those of his parents. Trapped because of the awful lies his father had brought him up to believe in. It was suddenly quite clear to her, and her preconceptions were dealt a jarring blow, making her mind suddenly race with the thoughts her realisation had opened the door to. Malfoy had said the evening he'd arrived that it wasn't his mother's fault – that she had been brought up to believe the pureblood nonsense. That she had never had a chance. Well, Hermione thought dizzily, if that applied to Narcissa, then it certainly applied to Malfoy.

Not, she added, that it _absolved_ him of anything.

"And, and can you tell her that I say to please not fight this? Tell her I'm…_imploring_ her to – to behave. And tell her I'm sorry. That…" Malfoy paused and his pale cheeks flushed with embarrassment but he ploughed on, "That I love her, and I only want to keep her safe. And I'll see her soon."

Finished, he glared at Hermione as though he expected her to laugh at him, to mock him for his admission of love. She didn't. Her mind was still whirling around her shattered preconceptions, even as she tried to memorise what he had said.

"I'll tell her," Hermione assured him once she had committed the message to memory, and he nodded shortly, refusing to meet her gaze now, head bent and eyes down. She shifted uncomfortably on the stairs again and couldn't think of anything to say. 'Goodbye' would just sound _stupid _somehow. She stepped up the last few stairs to the trapdoor and thumped on it hard several times, and then waited for someone to come and open it.

Hermione watched Malfoy in her peripheral vision as she waited. He sat on the dirt, shivering and dirty, and the sight triggered her well-developed sense of fairness again. Her anger flared up bright and her _lumos_ flickered unevenly in sync with her emotions.

"I'll make sure you get some things," she said firmly, and Malfoy glanced up at her, a question on his face.

"A bed, table – that sort of thing." Hermione deliberately didn't mention a toilet or look at the bucket that hid away down the other end of the cellar.

"It's not right, you not...they – we – shouldn't…you don't deserve…" _Damnit._ Hermione swore silently as she scrabbled for words and came up with nothing that sounded right.

"I'll make sure you get some things," she repeated herself fiercely, angry with Harry for thinking it was fine to make _anyone_ live down here without even a bed. Malfoy looked surprised, and opened his mouth to speak, but before Hermione could hear whatever it was he was going to say, the trapdoor cracked open.

Warm, cheery light flooded Hermione's vision and she shook her _lumos_ out, shielding her eyes slightly as she scrambled up out of the cellar. She looked back just for a second, and her sympathy panged as she saw him staring silently up at her from his hunched position on the ground, an unexpected miserable loneliness saturating his expression.

The trapdoor fell shut behind her with a thud, and Ginny stepped on it casually, oblivious to the teenage boy alone beneath her feet, flashing Hermione a curious look,

"_You_ were down there for a while."

"Was I?" was all Hermione said, and smiled tightly at Ginny, the bright, homey light of the dining room still stinging her eyes. Everyone on this dinner schedule – they had three 'dinners' throughout the day because of the different shifts people operated on – was sitting around the table, which was laden and groaning with the weight of the food. Chatter sparkled loud and boisterous through the air; dinnertime was off-limits to any mention of the ongoing war. Molly Weasley insisted it was important to have some time together without thinking about the war, and she was right. I _was _nice to have a chance to relax as much as possible and focus on other more pleasant things, like Tonks' pregnancy and Fred and George's antics, the fond looks Mr and Mrs Weasley exchanged when they thought no one was looking.

But tonight, as Hermione found a free seat and looked around her, she couldn't just relax and soak up the warmth of the animated interactions that filled the room. She couldn't stop herself from comparing the bright, cosy atmosphere to the dank, lonely hole in the ground where Malfoy was right now. Just below their feet, but he might as well have been on the other side of the world, so different were their situations right now. She…Hermione felt bad for him. And this time, she didn't question the feeling – her eyes instead flicking to where Harry sat, sandwiched between Ginny and Ron, and Hermione promised herself she would have a bloody stern word with him after dinner. She thought for the dozenth time to herself; no one deserved to be shoved down in the cellar like Malfoy was. She would feel bad for anyone in the same situation. Except for maybe Bellatrix and you-know-who. Hermione's innate sense of justice and fairness didn't go quite _that_ far.

Hermione stabbed a piece of chicken absentmindedly on her fork and thought she was getting beginning to get used to seeing Malfoy as human; someone with feelings and fears. And maybe…maybe it didn't feel so awful after all.

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_Author's Note:_ You know the drill, folks – if you enjoyed the chapter, then just click on that little button below that says _review _and leave me one :)

Questions: What do you think of the dynamic between Draco and Hermione so far?

I don't want to make them fall all over each other straight away, because that would be unrealistic for their characters, but I want to create tension and a connection between them \. To make all their interactions fraught with some kind of emotion to make their interactions enjoyable to read – did I succeed in creating 'tension' between them? Thoughts, opinions on their dynamic so far? Want more angst, nicer moments/sympathetic from Hermione toward Draco, more feelings of… I don't know – gratitude, for eg? – from Draco toward Hermione?

And now, a little extra character insight, otherwise known as me rambling on…

Hermione is now starting to gain a more complex view of Draco… She realises that he's no longer the person he once was, recognises that he's suffered through some awful things, and doesn't think anybody should be treated the way he's being treated. So, being Hermione, she feels sorry for him despite herself, and while she still has a lot of (completely understandable) negative feelings toward him, she wants to at least make sure that he's not mistreated. And maybe even make him feel a little bit better.

Draco is grateful to get sympathy, to know that someone actually cares about him as a person, even if it's Hermione Granger, and it's reluctant caring. But he's still got (some) of his pride, and a part of him resents the fact that he is in a position where she can be magnanimous and kind to him (compared to how others treat him anyway). He's also angry with himself for being so eager for her kindness, and it makes him feel pathetic, which he intensely dislikes, and that's where the 'bossy bitch' line comes from. He's trying to prove to himself that he hasn't been completely broken by everything that has happened to him – Draco's all about clinging to what little pride he has left.

And that's it for now folks. The next chapter, Hermione yells at someone, Ron gets totally, awesomely hardcore, and Draco gets to experience more soul-shattering misery (things always get worse before they get better, right? Or maybe I'm just sadistic). That'll be going up in around 2 – 3 days, I hope. Remember, your reviews have the power to make my fingers type faster :)


	6. The Shame in Your Defeat

_Author's Note: _ An early chapter thanks to the splendiferous reviews I've gotten lately. *gives my reviewers Jedi hugs* I'm floating on a review-high! Also thanks and yay to all those who have favourited, and followed – plus the lurkers reading along and making my stats rocket up and up – you guys are also awesome, why don't you come on in and say 'hello'? :)

On to what in my opinion is rather soul-crushing awfulness…

_Enjoy!_

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**Chapter Five**

"Harry, hang on – can I talk to you please?" Hermione interrupted as Harry and Ginny tried to slip out of the dining room together after pudding, talking in low tones and staring at each other with naked affection. Harry froze and looked reluctantly at Hermione and then back to Ginny, who hung off his arm happily.

"But…"

"It's _important_, Harry," Hermione said, and frowned impatiently at him. Harry looked desperately again at Ginny, and Hermione rolled her eyes; he just wanted to sneak off with Ginny and snog her silly. Hermione sighed.

"Harry. It's…it's about Malfoy," she said self-consciously, half embarrassed that she was going to all this effort for Draco Malfoy of all people, and certainly not wanting to broadcast her interest in him to the whole room. Or rather, not her interest in _him_ – that was a silly way to put it. It sounded too…personal. Her concern over his living conditions. Yes, that sounded better. Hermione waited and got more and more annoyed as Harry vacillated between going upstairs with Ginny and snogging or staying and talking to his friend.

Ginny solved Harry's indecision in the end, by letting him go and giving him a little nudge toward Hermione, "Go on then." She flashed Harry a _look_ that Hermione wished she hadn't seen, "I'll be up in my room when you're done."

Harry blushed beet red and nodded swiftly, "Uh huh."

Ginny giggled and smirked and gave Harry a cheeky little wave as she spun around with her long red hair flying, and clattered upstairs. Harry watched his girlfriend until she disappeared from sight, a rather sweet expression on his face, only snapping out of it when Hermione grabbed his wrist and dragged him through the foyer and into the little nook by the stairs, where the coat cupboard was.

"Jeez, calm down Hermione," he looked at her bewilderedly, "What on earth's the matter?"

"Malfoy," she said his name and Harry's face darkened, "What did he say to you?"

Hermione shook her head, despairing at Harry's habit of jumping to conclusions before he knew any of the facts. Sometimes he leaped before he looked, and in that he reminded Hermione uneasily of Sirius. Harry was too quick to take risks, to make assumptions – to charge in blindly before having a concrete plan. She shook her head to clear her thoughts, wild tangles of hair coming loos from the bun at the back of her head and falling around her face. She brushed them off impatiently, tucking the wayward locks behind her ears and crossing her arms over her chest again.

"You stuck him in the cellar and didn't even give him a bed!"

"What?" Harry was taken aback by Hermione's vehement tone, the way her brown eyes narrowed as she glared at him disapprovingly. She repeated herself, slower this time, "You didn't even give him a bed." She couldn't believe she was doing this for Malfoy. _Malfoy_. But then Hermione remembered how dejected Malfoy had been; the way he had lashed out and called her a bossy bitch, sounding like his old insufferable self for a moment, before apologising pitiably and desperately to her. She remembered how miserable and lonely he had looked when she had left. It wasn't right to make _anybody_ live in a cellar with even bed or a loo. It just wasn't right. Whether Malfoy might deserve it or not.

"I went down there and he was huddled up on the dirt shivering like a bloody leaf! He's got nowhere to sleep, nowhere to eat…" she avoided mentioning the bucket, the mere thought of it making her go hot with embarrassment on Malfoy's behalf.

"I – I…" Harry stuttered, his back pressed against the side of the stairs as Hermione levelled the full force of her glare on him. Hermione realised slowly that Harry hadn't even thought about Malfoy's living conditions. He'd been down there, seen the cellar, and obviously hadn't thought anything of it. Hermione felt a strange pang of disappointment.

"I didn't think…" Harry tried to defend himself, and Hermione took a step back and rubbed her hands over her face, exhaled tiredly.

"I can see that, Harry. But that's the problem, isn't it? You just didn't think about it," Hermione repeated, shaking her head.

"Harry, he may be a prisoner, but he surrendered to us. He turned himself over. And he hasn't tried to cause any trouble so far. And I don't think he's going to, do you?" She paused and waited for Harry to respond, and he shook his head in agreement, subdued.

"We can't keep him like that, Harry. That's what the other side would do. And I don't want to be like _them_," Hermione ended softly, and there was a brief silence in their little nook beside the stair. In the dining room and lounge noise and chatter resounded, but Hermione and Harry stood in a little bubble of fraught silence.

The moment broke when Harry let out a little puff of breath and scratched at his head, looking an odd mix of rueful and defensive.

"You're right. I'll sort it out, 'Mione. You're…right," And then he looked at her shrewdly and asked, "Why do you care so much anyway? I thought you'd be happy the arrogant prick was getting a taste of his own medicine."

"He had his _hand cut off_, Harry! I think that's enough of his _own medicine_, don't you?" The words burst out without thought or consideration, "Not to mention that while he might not be perfect, _he_ _let me go_. He – he let me go… And for that he got tortured and you-know-who _pulled his fingers off_ and fed them to his _snake_. I think he's paid the price for whatever horrible things he's done. Paid the price and then some," she finished awkwardly and with quiet sadness, the sudden anger Harry had provoked slipping away as she realised how loudly she had yelled at him, how furious she had gotten on Malfoy's behalf. Now she just felt stupid and somehow _exposed_ as Harry stared at her, green eyes boggling behind his round glasses.

Hermione hadn't even consciously considered what she was yelling at Harry, but it had been right. Malfoy _had_ paid the price. She hadn't thought about it that way until this very moment, but it seemed that what Malfoy had lost and suffered through was more than enough punishment for his crimes. A large part of her reminded herself not to go forgiving too quickly. She would have to wait and see if the change in Malfoy was genuine or a really very good act. Hermione wasn't about to leap into thinking Malfoy was a wonderful bloke because he'd suffered – him suffering didn't change the fact that so many others, innocents, had suffered because of his actions. Hermione swallowed hard. Malfoy having lost his hand didn't make her feel any better about the torture she had suffered through. But still; the Order didn't need to add to Malfoy's suffering.

"He's lost his family, his home, his hand… He's still an arsehole, but he's not being a bad guy anymore Harry."

Harry nodded thoughtfully, still watching Hermione carefully, as though he was afraid she might go off at him again.

"Fair enough, 'Mione." He said soothingly and Hermione bit her lip.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she gulped, contemplating saying, _I just felt so sorry for him_, and then Ron's voice interrupted with loud concern, "You two all right?"

Hermione swore under her breath and noticed both of the boys giving her odd looks. Harry answered Ron with a sideways glance at Hermione.

"We're just talking about getting Malfoy a few things for the cellar. If he's going to be down there a while…well, he'll need a bed and the like."

"Nah, just leave him," Ron said cheerfully, beaming at Hermione and Harry, "See how he likes things when he's not the poncy little Slytherin prince anymore. See how he likes life when people aren't sucking up to him every second and he doesn't have his _friends_ looking out for him."

Hermione felt a moment of disconnection. Ron said it so casually. Ron had so completely othered Malfoy that he really didn't give a fig _what_ happened to him. In fact, the more miserable Malfoy was that better, in Ron's opinion. Hermione supposed she had been guilty of that too…although in her mind she thought she had a better reason to dislike Malfoy than Ron. Ron had never been pinned by a spell to the Malfoy's floor while Bellatrix… She fought a flood of memories for a few seconds, and when she focused on the present again, she heard Ron saying, "…Malfoy, being reduced to shitting in a bucket. Merlin, that's _priceless_. Just a pity you gave him toilet paper! Just imagine if you hadn't and, he'd, he'd –" Ron couldn't keep going he was laughing so much, and Hermione felt the blood drain from her face with cold, horrified fury. And shame, too, because a few nights ago she probably would have thought it was mildly funny too, if desperately immature.

"You know, you really can be a bloody _arse_ sometimes, _Ronald_," she snapped out and stormed past a bewildered Ron. Hermione put her hand ascended the first few stairs and then rested her hand on the banister and fixed the boys down beside the stairs with a fierce look.

"And when you get him a bed and whatever else he should have, make sure you find a way to put a fucking _loo_ in there," she added irately, and then thundered up the stairs, wiping away hot tears of confused anger and shame.

"What did I _say_?" she heard Ron ask Harry, voice hurt and bewildered as her feet raced up the steps.

"Never mind, mate." Harry answered, "Let's just make sure we put in a bloody loo."

"_Fucking_ ferret," was the last thing Hermione heard as she reached her bedroom, Ron's voice drifting faintly up the stairs and down the hall, "Lupin should've just left him and his bloody mother at Grimmauld Place for you-know-who to take care of."

Hermione slammed her bedroom door behind her.

# # #

The cellar was far better lit than it had been, the orb of light that floated in the middle of the ceiling having been joined by four more, all emitting a warm yellow hue rather than dim blue. Draco stood aimlessly by the stairs and watched all the activity going on around him. Potter, the Weasel, Lupin and the Weasley twins were busy transforming the space. A shrunken bed – the easiest way to get it through the trapdoor – had been placed in one corner and enlarged to human proportions, a small table and one chair had been lugged down the stairs, and even a dresser was been placed at the end of the bed for him. Merlin knew why, it wasn't like Draco had any clothes to put in it. And now they were working away in a corner with a combination of spells and matériels, erecting what Draco believed was a toilet. Please, dear Merlin let it be a toilet.

He had been rudely awoken that morning with the trapdoor being flung open and a troupe of people charging down into his cellar without warning. For a second he had thought… Draco swallowed hard. For a second he had thought that something had happened and the Order had finished playing nice. That he was going to be tortured. Or killed. But he hadn't been. Instead Potter had looked over at Draco, curled on the dirt under his coat and shivering, and said a brusque, "Good morning, Malfoy." Draco had struggled to wakefulness and his feet, and mumbled, "Potter," in a sleep-fogged voice, hating that he had been caught unawares by the bloody Boy-Who-Lived and his worshippers.

"We've come to…spruce the place up a bit, Malfoy," Potter had continued, like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

"You've been behaving well, and I think you deserve some recognition of that fact." Potter had relayed the information like he thought he was doing Draco an enormous favour. The _prick_. The fucking smug _prick_.

Draco had wished for his wand as he had wrapped his filthy coat around him and stared at Potter with hate smouldering inside, warming him like his coat couldn't. But Draco didn't have his wand – Potter did. And so instead of telling the Golden Boy exactly what he thought of him or hexing the bastard, Draco had simply shut his mouth, and nodded numbly at Potter. Luckily the Order members had ignored Draco and just gotten on with their work, and within a matter of half an hour, everything was done. Lupin and the Weasley twins finished up with sighs of relief and heading up out of the cellar without a single glance at Draco. It was like he didn't even exist – not worth noticing. The implication grated on him, and he clenched his jaw, the anger and humiliation that were his constant companions lately flaring in the face of their dismissal of him. He was a Malfoy…and then he had to remind himself he wasn't.

"Malfoy. We're all done. Someone will be down with you breakfast soon. " Harry nodded as he ascended the stairs, calling to the Weasel, "Come on, Ron."

Weasley, Draco realised, was standing near the magically installed loo, staring at Draco with an odd look on his face. Draco shifted on his feet under the contemptuous weight of Ronald Weasley's stare, pulling his coat closer around him.

"I'll be up in a minute, Harry."

Potter stopped in his tracks, and with a bare glance for Draco, hurried back down the stairs and over to the Weasel.

"What are you doing, Ron?" Draco overheard Harry ask in quiet, tense tones. Weasley shrugged, "I just wanted a word with the ferret."

"No, Ron." Potter sounded tired, and he scrubbed a hand through that messy hair, and Draco remembered a time when his hair had been immaculate in comparison to Potter's, but no longer.

"Come on Ron, don't do this. This isn't how we work." Draco's ears strained to pick up the muted conversation, and Potter looked around and saw Draco staring and frowned briefly at him, before turning back to Weasley.

"I'm not going to hurt him, Harry…well, maybe a little, but…"

"Ron. We don't bloody do that," Potter said in a fierce whisper, and then added in an even lower voice such that Draco could barely make his words out, "Besides, 'Mione wouldn't like it. You know that." Draco's eyebrows arched; Granger would disapprove of the Weasel tormenting him? That was…perhaps not entirely unexpected. It was probably her that had arranged this little _redecoration_ like she had promised. Draco honestly hadn't expected her to keep her word. He felt oddly set off-balance.

"She doesn't have to know." The Weasel shot a murderous look at Draco, "He let them bloody _torture_ her, Harry, without even trying to stop them. And who knows who else he's hurt, or murdered even. I just want to…" Weasley's voice was tight and Draco flinched and took a step back into the shadows. He'd never murdered anyone, but he'd hurt far too many people, and his newly acquired guilt ate into him.

"Ron…" Potter sounded less sure now, and the Weasel pressed the advantage, "Just go upstairs, Harry. I'll be up in five minutes. Just give me five minutes."

"Ron…"

"It was Hermione! You know she has nightmares about it. Wakes up crying, won't leave the house, has those things she calls panic attacks… She's permanently _scarred_. Even if she gets past the, the flashbacks and the nightmares, she has the scars to remind her of it – every fucking day. And _he_ helped them do that to her."

Draco shut his eyes. Hearing Weasley say that… Draco had never really comprehended what the torture must have done to Granger until now. Guilt stabbed knives into him. He fucking hated the Weasel, but the bastard had made his point. Potter seemed to think so too, because after a moment's pause his voice came to Draco's ears, strained and low, "I'll see you upstairs, Ron."

So Potter had made his choice. Draco wouldn't have expected the Golden Boy to make that decision, and as he looked over at Ronald Weasley, wand in hand, Draco really wished Potter had chosen differently. The redhead looked truly dangerous, not at all like the bumbling fool he'd been at school. He wasn't someone Draco could mock anymore. Draco supposed inanely that months of being on the run, and more months of skirmishes with Death Eaters had hardened Weasley. Draco took an unthinking step further back into the shadows, as if he could hide himself. Fucking stupid.

The trapdoor thudded shut and Draco flinched. He shut his eyes for a brief second, steeling himself. What could Ronald Weasley do that the Dark Lord hadn't? Draco had survived that – whatever Weasley did to him would be _nothing_ in comparison.

"Ferret," Weasley said, twirling his wand in his hand and strolling toward where Draco huddled, completely defenceless. It used to be the other way around; Draco with the wand and all the power, and Weasley a helpless fool. Draco imagined Weasley was enjoying this role reversal. He said nothing in response, and Weasley frowned. He baited Draco, "Not so fucking up yourself when you're unarmed are you?" Weasley said, and then laughed shortly, "Unarmed, oh, good one, Ron," he congratulated himself and Draco felt sick. He hated it when people mentioned his hand. Hated it.

"If it were up to me, I'd gift wrap you and leave you on your precious bloody _Dark Lord's_ doorstep." Weasley was right in front of Draco now, and Draco backed up further until his back hit the wall. Weasley stalked forward to close the distance and grinned mirthlessly, "Unfortunately, that's one of the many things _we don't do_." He waggled his wand warningly, "However, apparently I _am_ allowed to have a little fun with you."

"I thought Granger wouldn't like it?" Draco said desperately and humiliatingly afraid of this _new_ Ronald Weasley, with his cold eyes and battle-hardened confidence. _Invoking Granger's name to save your arse? Brilliant, Draco, just fucking brilliant. How _pathetic_ are you?_ Draco berated himself mentally. Weasley leaned forward, "She doesn't have to find out, does she, ferret? No need to go and upset her with things she doesn't need to know about."

"Upset? She have a _soft spot_ for me, does she? I always _thought_ she was a little too vehement about her hating me. You know what they say…" Draco spoke before he thought, shades of the old Draco, and Weasley's wand was at his throat before he'd finished speaking, "Shut your bloody mouth, Malfoy. You don't speak about Hermione like that," he snarled, and then took a sharp breath and stepped back, wrestling his anger back under control again.

"Does it piss you off, Malfoy. What you are now?" Weasley changed tack suddenly, and Draco blinked, confused. He had expected Weasley to throw a few hexes, rough him up a bit. He hadn't expected…whatever this was. "Does it hurt to know your father hates you?" Weasley continued and Draco's eyes slipped to the ground, staring at his shoes. It did, her thought silently. Even after everything his father had done since the day Granger had been tortured… It still hurt. He was his _father_ for Merlin's sake…his _father_. He was supposed to _love_ Draco, not…

Weasley's voice continued, sharp and triumphant, "I think it must. Just like it must hurt to lose your hand. How does it feel, Malfoy, to know that for the rest of your life, you're going to be a useless cripple?" Draco's pulse quickened and his breath came in small quiet gasps as Weasley taunted him, "The promising young Slytherin _arsehole_, now a mutilated outcast. Reducing to crawling to your enemies for _protection_."

_Mutilated_.

_Outcast_.

Draco felt tears veil his eyes, and his view of his shoes and the packed dirt ground wavered. He shut his eyes and begged himself to not cry, not in front of Weasley.

"How does it feel, Malfoy? Relying on the mercy of the girl you allowed to be tortured? Grovelling at the Order's feet?" Weasley made a laughing sound, but there was no humour in it, only disgust, "You're scum, Malfoy. Scum."

Draco deliberately bit his tongue until his teeth pierced its flesh, trying to focus on the pain and not Weasley's words.

"Look at me. Bloody look at me, Malfoy!" Weasley ordered and Draco kept his eyes shut, face toward the ground. So he didn't see it coming. Didn't see Weasley stow his wand in his pocket and reach out and grab Malfoy's right arm with one hand, yank it away from his body before he could react. Draco opened his eyes then and struggled, but he was weak after all he had been through, and Weasley wasn't. Weasley held Draco's arm in an iron grip and clamped his other hand over Draco's stump with a look of utter revulsion. Squeezed, and Draco couldn't stop a whimper from escaping as pain blossomed like fire in his stump, radiating up the nerves of his arm, right through to his shoulder, his chest.

"Stop," he gasped without thought, "Please, _please… Stop!_"

"Bloody look at me, then, when I'm talking to you, Malfoy," Weasley let go of Draco's stump and wiped his hand on his trousers disgustedly, but his other hand kept hold of Draco's forearm. Draco looked at Weasley, blinking back tears of pain and setting his jaw, making his eyes cold and blank with an enormous effort of will. He wouldn't give Weasley the satisfaction. Weasley started talking, "You're scum. You've hurt people, I know that; Hermione is one of them. Maybe you weren't the one torturing her, but you stood there and let it happen. That alone makes you cowardly scum in my opinion, and I know she wasn't the only torture you were there for. There must have been others." Draco refused to show emotion, and Weasley kept going, "The Order may have taken pity on you. We may have taken you in, _pathetic_ and harmless as you are now, but don't you _ever_ make the mistake of thinking you deserve to be here. Don't you _ever_." Draco listened silently.

"Because you _don't_ deserve to be here. You don't deserve Hermione's misguided sympathy. _Remember that_. Everyone here, unlike you, is a bloody good person. They want to see the best in people – even fucking _filth_ like you." Draco wanted to shut out what Weasley was saying, wanted to _not hear it_. Because every word was fucking true and he hated himself enough already. He couldn't…couldn't listen to this. But he did, because he didn't have any other choice.

"So no matter how anyone treats you, no matter how _decent_ the Order is to you… Even if you get everyone else to forget what you really are… Just remember that I know what you are, Malfoy." Weasley's eyes were narrowed, his face white, freckles standing out starkly as he sneered at Draco, "I bloody well know _exactly _what kind of evil scum you are. And if I think ever think you're going to hurt someone I care about, I will do what Harry or Hermione or any of the others can't. You understand me, Malfoy?"

Draco stared at Weasley, numbed, shocked.

"Do you fucking understand me, _mate_?" The last word dripped with contempt, and Ron's hand closed over Draco's stump, gripped it hard again. Draco's body tensed and he hissed quietly at the agony but refused to make a sound like he had before. He knew what Weasley wanted, and so he gave it to him; he nodded obediently, like a pitiful puppet, unable to speak because of the pain.

"Good," Weasley said and released Draco, stepped back with a sudden hard smile, and with a wave of his wand, put out al the lights but one.

"This was fun, Malfoy. We should do it again sometime, right?"

Draco cradled his injured limb to his body and he knew Weasley would be able to see the helpless hate and shame in his eyes; knew he'd gloat over the sight. But he couldn't hide it.

"Yeah, thought so, mate, Weasley said after a second with a broad grin, and clumped merrily up the stairs, whistling, as though the last five minutes had meant nothing to him. And maybe they hadn't, to Weasley. More likely, though, he'd enjoyed it. Draco hadn't. For the hundredth time in the past few months, Draco experienced the horrible knowledge that someone he had once despised and looked down on was _right_, and he had been wrong.

Draco was _exactly_ what Weasleyhad said he was.

He could have gone and sat down on his new, comfortable bed, but he didn't. No, Draco belonged exactly where he was. He slid down to the ground, a heap in the dirt, clutching his stump gingerly and fighting back tears.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ So…What do you think?! Did you enjoy the Hermione/Harry/Ron scene? I want to get the dynamics between the three of them just _right_.

Was the Draco scene totally and utterly soul-crushing? y/y? And hot? y/y?

Did I get Draco and Hermione in character with their actions/reactions etc this chapter?

Regarding Harry and Ron: Harry's a little colder and sadder now, more…pragmatic, thanks to the war. He's clinging to his idealism, but can't stop losing it along the way. Hence why he lets Ron have his five minutes with Draco.

Ron is…he's grown a lot. Leaving Harry and Hermione during their time hunting horcruxes, and then coming back and destroying the locket really had a big impact on him. And since then he's been battling Death Eaters, watching friends die out on the 'front lines' so to speak, and just generally matured. This _isn't_ going to be a Dramione fic where Ron's a total arsehole – he may have been in this chapter, but to be honest…he kinda has every reason to be, from his perspective. He has no reason to feel sorry for Draco – he hates him. Ron values actions over words, and it'll likely take him quite sometime to accept Draco has changed, I reckon.

I know there was no Draco/Hermione interaction this chapter, but to make up for it you get a _whole_ chapter of _just _Hermione and Draco next update, and god, it is, if possible, more angsty/intense than this chapter in my highly biased opinion, plus with a little bit of (my version of) sweetness :p


	7. Flawed

_Author's Note: _Thank you for the reviews and general love! I put this chapter up way earlier than I was going to, because some of you seemed to have concerns regarding the last chapter especially, and I wanted to elucidate my take on everything. Those enormously long notes are at the end of the chapter.

And now, I hope you all,

_Enjoy!_

**Chapter Six**

This time Hermione had _asked_ to be the one to take Malfoy his lunch having the job foisted upon her. She wanted to make sure Harry had made good on his word to make the cellar at least liveable for Malfoy; she didn't trust him not to have forgotten something important, whether on purpose or by accident. Hermione would never normally suspect Harry to treat a person badly, prisoner or not. But this was Malfoy, and somehow Hermione suspected Harry and Ron might think the rules were different where 'the ferret' was concerned. Mrs Weasley opened the trapdoor for Hermione and she picked her way down the steep steps carefully, peering into the dim space, lunch tray held in both hands.

"Malfoy?" The cellar definitely looked better, Hermione noted as she peered around looking for Malfoy. There was a neat bed, an old dresser, a card table and folding chair, and in the corner a walled off box that Hermione guessed with a blush must be the toilet. But Malfoy himself was nowhere in sight.

"Malfoy?" Hermione set the tray of food down on the card table, which wobbled briefly as she touched it. He still hadn't answered her, and Hermione had a twinge of ridiculous worry that Ron had _actually_ murdered him. She set her hands on her jean-clad hips and stared around the room, turning around and trying to see into the many shadows. There! She thought she made out a shape by the stairs. God, what was he doing? She walked slowly over, "Malfoy. Are you all right?"

He sat on the dirt instead of his neat bed in the corner, all crumpled up into a ball. Was he hurt? Sick? Had Ron really actually hurt him somehow? Hermione's heart rate picked up for a few worried seconds, and then she rolled her eyes as he moved slightly but didn't respond.

"Malfoy!" she snapped his name sharply, annoyed at him for making her worry, and more annoyed with herself for worrying, and taking all that annoyance out on him. He looked up at last, without a smile or a word, his eyes shadowed and red rimmed like he'd been crying. Hermione swallowed. She didn't like him. She had nothing in common with him. He had done horrible things to her, even at school, and had been there when… But, she told herself, he wasn't that person anymore, and, and he had been _crying_. She told herself she didn't have to like Malfoy to feel sympathy for him. Hermione bit her lip, and made a decision. Instead of leaving now that she had seen he was fine and the cellar had been improved, she asked, "Why are you sitting down here? You have a bed now, you know. A _chair_, even," she tried to joke slightly, and it fell horribly flat under the weight of his darkened eyes.

"You kept your word," he said hoarsely, "I suppose I should be grateful."

"It's the usual response in polite society, Malfoy," Hermione answered pointedly but without real malice, picking at her fingernails nervously.

"Thank you," he said quietly and without emotion, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere past her shoulder, the pale light on his face showing dried tear streaks down his grubby cheeks.

"So why are you sitting down here?" Hermione prodded, more to fill in the silence than anything. She wouldn't be able to help feeling like a terrible person if she just walked out and left Malfoy tear-stained and huddled in this dark space by the stairs. She watched him bite his lip, teeth very white in the light, worrying his bottom lip gently.

"It doesn't matter…. I don't…" He trailed off and then focused his eyes on her, a little clarity coming back to them, "Besides, it's clean and I'm absolutely filthy, thanks to apparently not being allowed the _privilege _of washing. I don't want to…" He looked down at himself; and Hermione noticed again his still-dirty clothes and his grubby face. "Oh." Hermione hadn't thought of that, and she fiddled nervously with a lock of her hair; her thick mane loose and somewhat tamed today – shiny and wavy rather than bushy.

She gnawed on the inside of her cheek; cast her gaze awkwardly about the room. Being friendly to Malfoy was bloody hard, no matter how sorry she felt for him. And him sitting there looking awful and miserable, and barely saying 'boo' didn't help either. She pressed on, though, "Do you, um, want some company?" She smiled at him tentatively and the friendly expression seemed to confuse him, his brows scrunching together. "If you want," he said, trying for indifference and just sounding young and uncertain and dreadfully lonely. Hermione would never have thought Draco Malfoy, a prig of the first order, was capable of seeming so normal. Of behaving and feeling just like any other teenage boy in his situation would; lonely and scared, friendless and traumatised. Not that he'd ever admit to that, she knew.

Hermione nodded, the matter settled, and looked around for something to sit on. In the end she just plonked down on the floor with legs folded up under her, pulling her jersey sleeves down over her hands and tucking them in her lap as a draught nipped at her and made her shiver.

"It's Molly Weasley's cooking, of course," Hermione said after a long silence. She nodded her head over at the lunch of corned beef, vegetables and bread, "So it's absolutely delicious."

Malfoy nodded silently and Hermione was left at a loss. "You should eat it before it gets cold," she tried, and to her surprise he nodded again and struggled to his feet one-handed. It looked like it was a little difficult for Malfoy to even just stand up, and Hermione couldn't help staring in pity for a second; looking away quickly before he saw her sympathetic gaze.

She jumped to her feet and brushed the dirt off the seat of her jeans trying to cover up her uncomfortableness, and then realised how easy and graceful it was for her to stand. The stark contrast between how thoughtlessly and easily she could scramble to her feet, and Draco's clumsy movements made her wince.

"There's only the one chair," Draco observed without emotion as he stared down at the tray of food, and Hermione shivered. He spoke like he was dead inside, like he'd given up. She thought again of how she didn't like him…but god did she ever feel sorry for him. She forced a smile, "Oh… I'll be perfectly comfortable on your bed, Malfoy." The look he gave her was startled, eyes wide and silvery in the light, _looking_ at her like he really saw her for the first time since he'd brought his lunch down. She tucked her hair behind her ears and flushed, eyes dropping to the ground. That hadn't come out right at all. She had been trying to sound friendly, not… "I'm sorry, _what_ was that, Granger?" Malfoy asked, and sounded almost like a slightly nicer version of his old self; his voice more animated as his eyes swept disbelievingly over her. Hermione's face felt hot, "Um. Your bed, Malfoy. I don't mind sitting there. While, um, you eat." She paused and gulped, stumbling over her words like an idiot, "If you don't mind, of course."

His response wasn't the look of contempt and mocking she half-expected; he actually smiled faintly, tired amusement crossing his face.

"Feel free, Granger," he told her, and the awkward moment passed as Hermione perched on the edge of bed. She wasn't sure why she was doing this. What she _did_ know was that solitary confinement was something that muggle prisons used only when it was totally unavoidable, because of the enormous mental toll of being alone in a cell 24/7. And Draco wasn't an adult hardened criminal; he was, despite his actions for the other side over the years, just a teenage boy – a teenage boy who had lost his entire _world_, and even a part of his physical self.

She wanted to give the Order the benefit of the doubt and assume they didn't know about the effects of solitary on a mind and weren't being purposely cruel. Maybe they just took it for granted, what with Azkaban being the only magical prison in Britain – that was far worse than a cellar.

Hermione wasn't really surprised Malfoy wanted her company, even though they had only exchanged a few words. What would they talk about anyway? The only shared experiences they had were negative, and although she was more comfortable being around Malfoy in regards to her PTSD, his presence still made her feel a little shaky. Off-kilter. But she knew that _that_ at least wasn't really his fault, telling herself over and over in the back of her mind, _he let me go. He didn't have to but he let me go. _Malfoy glanced uncertainly over at Hermione, and then reached for the fork. With his right hand. The stump of his wrist stuck out over the table, and he looked down at it for a second, as if he was surprised by its scarred presence. As if he had forgotten he had it, which he obviously had.

Hermione winced as she saw his face cycle through a series of emotions; brief shock, then hurt, despair, anger. Malfoy's eyelashes fluttered as he blinked rapidly, his jaw clenched and pale complexion draining further of colour. He swore, and his face crumpled as he tucked his arm quickly away out of sight again. But Hermione had already seen it; better than she had seen it before. It was a normal arm, except that it ended abruptly where it should have matched the other limb; his bony wrist and elegant, long-fingered hand. Hermione asked, unable to help herself, "Does it hurt?"

"Yes." Was all he said, eyes slipping down to stare at the foreshortened limb.

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault, Granger."

She sat perched on the edge of the bed, her two – whole – hands twining in her lap and looked at Malfoy, fumbling with the fork, staring helplessly at the meat. Hermione had the sudden, totally mad, urge to offer to cut up the corned beef for him. She didn't. Draco Malfoy, unable to even feed himself properly. Should she be happy? Ron would be gleeful. Harry would be quietly, slightly guiltily pleased. Hermione…Hermione just felt sad. "Thank you, Malfoy," she said impulsively, words garbled together in her embarrassed rush. He glared up at her, taken aback and immediately on the defensive. "For what?" he asked ungraciously, and Hermione shrugged, "For letting me go."

Malfoy chuckled bitterly and for a second Hermione thought that he was going to mock her sentiment, but instead he said, "It was hardly anything special, Granger. Most people…" His face was filled with shame and self-recrimination. Hermione shrugged again, "We all know you aren't most people, Malfoy." She wasn't sure if she meant it as a compliment or not. But she added, "The point is, you saved my life. So…thanks."

He obviously had no idea what to say in the face of her thanks, so he said nothing. Instead he began eating slowly, eyes sliding to rest of her every now and then, as if to check she was still there, mingled suspicion and gratitude in his look. It was cruel to keep him locked up like this, alone, with nothing to do all day but sit and dwell on everything that had happened to him. She reminded herself harshly; _and everything that he has done, don't forget that too. He's no innocent._

His plate kept sliding away from him as he tried to painstakingly cut through his corned beef, and he swore under his breath. Hermione would have offered to help, but she didn't think he would appreciate it. In the end he was forced to bring out his mutilated arm, resting the upper part of his forearm on the edge of the plate to hold it still. Two red spots burnt high on his cheeks; humiliation, Hermione guessed. It was a slow process, and Hermione knew she shouldn't stare, but she couldn't stop her gaze lifting from her hands to his stump. Malfoy caught her, "You're staring, Granger. Didn't your mudblood parents teach you that was rude?" His voice was tight and trembled with obvious embarrassment, eyes narrowed angrily. Hermione gasped in a short breath as the slur was thrown at her, and her mouth twisted up and tears sprang to her eyes, "_Mudblood_? _Really_, Malfoy?"

"Shit, Granger. I'm sorry. I didn't mean…" Malfoy cleared his throat and she saw fear dancing in his eyes. Hermione could see herself in his place; he didn't want to her go, to hear the trapdoor slam shut behind her and to be left alone, without any real human contact until god knew when.

"Force of habit," he said at last, and Hermione nodded, accepting that. "Don't do it again," she told him and she could hear the coldness in her voice as she spoke.

"I won't." He was instantly apologetic and subdued, none of the arrogant Malfoy manner apparent right now as he turned humble eyes back to his lunch.

There was another long silence as he ate, and she, for lack of anything else to do, watched him surreptitiously. It was peaceful, in a weird sort of way. Upstairs there was always noise and busyness, always things to be done, talk of the war nearly constantly on peoples lips. Down here with Malfoy it was dim and empty apart form him, and Hermione found the silence oddly soothing. His stump was still on the table; he hadn't hidden it back under his coat after cutting his meat up. It was scarred in red and purple, raised ridges and sunken lines, and Hermione wondered how exactly it had been done. Who had done it. Had it been Voldemort? Or had you-know-who let someone else do it, as some sort of sick reward. Her eyes were locked to it, her thoughts making her vaguely squeamish, but she just couldn't stop staring.

"Is there something you want to _say_, Granger?" Draco's voice cut through the air and Hermione jerked her eyes up to meet his. There was a pained expression in his, "Something you want to ask me?"

"Wh –what?" She went beetroot red.

"You're _staring_ again, Granger."

"I – I – How did it happen, Malfoy?"

"What?" His outraged gaze pinned Hermione like a struggling beetle on its back and she wanted to take the words back but it was too late, so she just ploughed on stammeringly, "Who…who did it? Your hand, I mean. What happened?"

The set of Malfoy's features shifted, and hot outrage turned icy but no less incensed for that, eyes hard as frosted steel. Hermione was suddenly, shockingly reminded that Malfoy had the Dark Mark branded on his arm beneath his sleeve. That he had been a Death Eater. That he had, maybe not killed people, but hurt them. Tortured them. Stood by and watched people die without saying a word in their defence, because they were just _mudbloods_ and _muggles_; worthless nothings, no better than animals He had been party to monstrous acts, if not the perpetrator of them, and he might be maimed, but Hermione saw with crystal clarity, he could still be dangerous if he chose. She stood and those cold, hard eyes followed her, "What happened? What happened when I lost my hand? Who took it from me, who maimed me? You want to know do you, Granger? All the gory details?" His tone was pure venom and Hermione shrank from him, silent, edging around toward the stairs.

"I don't see how that's any of your _fucking_ business, Granger."

"It's not. It's not and I'm sorry I bloody well asked," she snapped; hurt trembling in her chin and welling up in her eyes, "I was just trying to… I just wondered how…who… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything and I certainly didn't mean anything by it."

"Didn't you?" He stood and loomed over her; still capable of appearing intimidating despite his too-thin frame and his arm huddled against his abdomen, "You sure about that? Not trying to dig up information for the Order, or get the story out of me so that you and Potty and the Weasel and all your little friends can laugh at me? Laugh about how the _fucking ferret_ lost his hand?" Malfoy's face was pinched and white.

"No I didn't, you bloody _prick_," Hermione burst out, tears leaking from her eyes and she was too angry to bother wiping them away. She waved her arms in wild gesticulations as she shouted at Malfoy, "I don't have to be here, you know. I could just leave your food on the top step like everyone else does! But I thought you might…I thought you might be lonely, and I wanted…I wanted to make you feel better. Unlike you, I'm not an _evil_, _pompous_ _arsehole_!" She glared at him wildly, backing towards the steps out of the cellar as she drew in gulping breaths, "But if you think I'm, I'm just some…I don't know. But I'm not going to waste my time on someone who goes off at me for asking a question!"

"It wasn't just a bloody _question_!" He roared at her suddenly, and Hermione's heels hit the bottom step and she almost overbalanced as she skittered back, "Asking about… You should _know_ that's not just a _bloody question_. Answering those sorts of questions is opening the door to memories of pain and helplessness and…and everything. It's exposing yourself to the person who asks the question. _And you should know that. _So fuck you, _mudblood_."" Malfoy ended, face anguished; still as vehement but voice quieter, chest rising and falling hard as he caught his breath, body shaking.

Hermione swallowed and sniffed noisily, staring at Malfoy miserably.

"I have to go," she said, "I think I should go now."

"Granger…" Malfoy rubbed his hand over his face, and when he pulled it away the anger was gone, leaving only pale exhaustion. Hermione licked her lips and stepped back up one step.

"I –I…" She turned and started stumbling up the steps with tear-blurred eyes and over her choking breaths heard Malfoy sigh tiredly, "Granger…don't you _understand_?"

She froze, shoulders stiff, facing the trapdoor and not Malfoy. She did understand, and that was partly why she was crying, partly why she wanted to just flee. It had been insensitive to ask him what she had. Bloody _thick_. She had been just as much an arsehole as Malfoy had. Hermione blinked hard and nodded without looking around.

"Granger, don't go."

"Why?"

"I…Merlin, don't make me say it…" Malfoy sighed and Hermione turned around, the combination of his words and tone strangely compelling. "_Why_ don't you want me to go, Malfoy?" She wanted to make him say it.

"I…I enjoyed your company, I suppose," he grated out, grey eyes luminous on hers. It sounded so surreal to hear Malfoy say those words, even reluctantly as he didn't. It had sounded like they had been physically dragged from him, under pain of death.

Hermione bit her lip, "You called me a mudblood, _again_."

"You asked me who cut my hand off," he rejoined sharply and Hermione massaged her temples, a headache starting.

She couldn't be around him right now; all this was just too much. Hermione was hurt and angry and guilty, and damnit, she shouldn't have to feel all those complicated, upsetting feelings because of _Malfoy_. He was just someone she felt sorry for. That was all. They weren't friends – they weren't even acquaintances. She had just been trying to… She sighed at herself, at her own convoluted thought processes. Hermione told herself it was because she didn't like seeing people miserable. She just hadn't wanted to leave him in the shadows behind the stairs; eyes all red from crying and with tear trails down his gaunt cheeks. And now they were _both_ miserable _and_ angry, and her plan to make him feel a bit less awful hadn't worked out at all.

"I…I'm just…I really should go, Malfoy. We're just… It's not… I – I'll see you later, though."

He stared at her from the bottom of the stairs, eyes wide and desperate, "Granger, please, stay. I swear I'll try not to be an arse."

Hermione thumped on the trapdoor and looked down at him, staring pleadingly at her, "I'll come back," she promised him emphatically, not knowing why she was promising. She didn't owe him anything.

"Granger… Granger…" he said her name but nothing else, tired and pleading and Hermione suddenly needed to run very, very far away. Her breath clogged in her chest and she couldn't breath.

This was Draco Malfoy the ex Death Eater. The boy who had tried to kill Dumbledore and very nearly killed other people in the process. The boy who hadn't done anything when she begged for help as Bellatrix tortured her. He shouldn't be standing just below her, desperation for her to stay _with him_ written all over his face and clear in his stricken voice. _Why? Why? _ Was he that desperate, that lonely? If so, it shouldn't be Hermione. It shouldn't be Hermione that Malfoy was depending upon, clinging to for human contact. She couldn't do it. It was too strange, too confusing, too frightening, feeling sorry for him and almost liking him, and then looking at him and suddenly remembering something so painful, so disturbing.

_Draco looked at Hermione – at her half-exposed chest with the words 'mudblood', 'scum', and 'whore' scrawled bloody above her simple white cotton bra. "What do you want?" The words were barely audible, a dull low murmur._

"Granger, please…"

"What's the point in me staying, Draco? We don't even like each other." She was brutally honest, too caught up in the snippet of memory that had come to mind to care about what she was saying. "I only stayed because you looked so miserable and I felt sorry for you…but there's no point if we're just going to snipe at each other, is there?"

He stiffened and his mouth tightened, "Feel sorry for me. Huh. Thanks, Granger."

"Well what did you think? You don't like me either, Malfoy!" Hermione flapped her arms uselessly at her sides and growled under her breath.

"Well…no, but… I don't need your pity!" Malfoy's voice rose as he shook his head, rejecting her sympathy, looking away from her, his mouth twisting unhappily.

"Well you haven't got anything else," Hermione said tightly, tears stinging at her eyes. It sounded awful but it was the truth. If he didn't want her sympathy, then what did he have left? His stupid bloody pride? That wasn't going to keep him company.

Malfoy looked up at her then, sharp and furious. "Then maybe you should go, because I don't fucking want that." He turned and walked away, sat down on the edge of his bed and Hermione was about say, _"what do you expect, Draco? I'm trying my best here!" _when the trapdoor opened and light flooded down.

"Hermione?" Harry's voice came down, and his smiling, tired face appeared in the trapdoor hole.

"Coming Harry," she answered, but she kept looking back over her shoulder as she surmounted the last few steps, at Draco sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her, his features perfectly composed. She half-wanted to go back down and try to talk him around, to make things as right as they could be between them, but she didn't.

It was much, much later, and Hermione was reading a book when she realised she had thought of Draco – there it was again – by his first name. Why on earth had she done that? Hermione stared at the small black print in her book but didn't see it, repeating in her head as though tasting the alien flavour of it; Draco. _Draco. _

# # #

_Author's Note: _So, dear readers, what did you think of that chapter? The Hermione/Draco relationship is moving along a little, I feel. But that may just be me. I wanted to have them argue, and I think it turned out okay – but I would love to hear your thoughts!

It's funny, even though I wrote this much earlier, I feel it kind of answers some of the questions/criticisms on the story some reviewers left.

And speaking of whichWow, so many reviews! I love it! A fair few of you had concerns, queries or criticisms, so I'd like to take the time to answer them :)

First off, a lot of you reckon that Ron's an arsehole/stupid for intimidating and hurting Draco, and fairly so. It is an unethical, immoral thing to do, and objectively speaking, Ron shouldn't have done it. But IMHO, Ron's actions were understandable (although still _wrong_.)

I mean, Draco has tormented Harry, Hermione, Ron and others throughout their school years, physically assaulted Harry, caused multiple injuries to multiple people while he was trying to kill Dumbledore (and in fact, almost killed _Ron_ with that poisoned drink in Slughorn's office), sided with Delores Umbridge, joined the Death Eaters (evil cult! Evil cult!), and has in _my_ story, by his own admission tortured innocents (to a lesser degree than Hermione's torture) as all Death Eaters would probably _have_ to do to get into the club. And probably a whole bunch of other stuff I've forgotten.

Draco was a _total evil git_. And we love him for it (*drool at the evil*), and love his potential for redemption etc, and because he was brought up that way and didn't have much choice (but still _did _have one – _everyone_ has a choice). But he still was a _total evil git_.

Hermione, Harry and Ron and everyone else have _no_ reason _whatsoever_ to like Draco, to take him under their protection, or to be nice to him in any way shape or form, other than common decency, which often gets a bit blurred when _total evil gits_ turn up on your doorstep.

And _yes_, mostly the Hermione-being-tortured-and-Draco-not-saving-her thing is just something very upsetting that gives them something recent and specific to be angry and yell at him about, which is irrational (but they hate the guy – they aren't going to be rational about him), but also symbolic of _all_ the awful shit he has done over the course of some years.

Hermione is being pretty damn awesome in the way she's acting toward Draco, I think, with the way she's starting to try to be rational, to sympathise with him, and gets that it's not all his fault, and that he did do what he could by letting her go after the torture and so on and so forth.

I think Ron is extra-furious at Draco because _he_ would have been willing to jump in without even thinking and potentially sacrifice his own life for Hermione, and he's too close to the situation to see that of course, Draco wouldn't ever think of doing that, because to him Hermione was just a girl he antagonised at school.

_Tl;dr_ No one likes Draco 'cause he was a total evil Death Eater git who kinda tortured people, everyone hates him and for good reason, even if they're being a bit irrational about it. Ron is being a _dick_ and his actions were _not_ _justifiable_, but understandable when you look at the situation from his perspective, and Hermione is being surprisingly big-hearted to be reaching out to Draco the way she is.

A few other points:

Re. Shitting on Draco (teehee): This story is _angst_, fried (on meth for you Americans) and pissed on a good two bottles of gin. Draco, like, _exists almost purely to be shat upon_ in a myriad of fascinating ways. Which will hopefully be disturbingly upsetting and sexy to read about (before we get to the D/H sex of course) in a sadistic kind of way. And as stated earlier, he was a total _bastard_ so no one's gonna try to make his life easier (except for Hermione 'cause she's lovely that way.)

Eventually, things will start evolving and changing for Draco, but there's going to be some shitting before we get off the potty, to horrible mangle a metaphor.

One last thing…A guest said that Draco didn't get interrogated – he did, in fact, it just isn't very relevant to the story (i.e. It doesn't involve angst so I ain't writing it! *flails*) which is primarily Draco/Hermione and _not_ the war, and therefore I put it in as such, in Chapter One:

"_He[Draco] was talking to Harry still – answering questions it looked like, but Hermione couldn't make out what he was saying. The couch he was sitting on afforded her a not-quite profile view of him, mostly seeing the back of his head, the corner of his mouth moving as he spoke, the end of his sharp nose, his left hand gesticulating apathetically ever so often. Hate and fear trickled through Hermione's veins in equal quantities. But she didn't panic again. _

_She kept sipping automatically at the firewhiskey and watching the interrogation."_

See! Interrogation! I hope that explains that :)

*takes deep breath*

Super –long exposition over! thanks for reading and leaving your comments, folks, and I hope I've managed to give you a helpful look at how I see the character motivations etc, and maybe clarified some issues :)


	8. Samt Vantar Eitthvað

_Author's Notes: _Thank you to all those who have followed, favourited and _reviewed_ – I hope you're all having marvellous holiday celebrations!

Here's a nice long chapter as a gift from me :D

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Samt Vantar Eitthvað **_

They woke Narcissa the next day; she had been too long in a state of unnatural sleep, and still sedated to the point of insensibility at the short times she had been brought out of it enough to take care of her bodily needs. Hermione made sure she was present when the thin, pale woman was brought out of her magical slumber; like a fairytale princess from the tales Hermione's parents had read to her when she was a child, before she knew the magic was real. Only Narcissa's awakening was without the kiss of course – or the happily ever after ending.

Once Narcissa had shaken off the lingering confusion of her sleep and had time to process the memories that had occurred while she had been under Draco's _Imperius,_ she had behaved with cold, haughty disdain. She had sat with spine straight and chin held high on the edge of the bed, ignoring the Order members present and smoothing her hair with slim white hands, brushing the wrinkles from the skirts of her robe. Narcissa had shown not the slightest bit of the anger and fear Hermione was sure she _must _have felt, but had instead asked coolly what the Order's plans for her were, whether her son was alive, and whether she could see him. Harry had informed Narcissa that Draco was indeed alive, and that no, she couldn't see him. Which was where Hermione stepped in.

"Harry?" she asked quietly but firmly, and he turned away from Narcissa, "What, Hermione?" She tugged him a little further away from Narcissa, who watched the two of them with cold, pale eyes. They sent a shiver down Hermione's spine. "Why can't she see Dra - Malfoy? Doesn't it make more sense to put them both in the cellar, anyway? Save on space?" Harry gave Hermione an odd glance as he caught her slip, "It keeps them both on their best behaviour," he answered her question in a low voice, "Keep dangling the reward of seeing each other in front of them – not to mention the threat of, well… This way they'll be less likely to try anything." Hermione's lip curled and her mouth dropped open as she stared disbelievingly at her best friend, "Harry you can't! That's just cruel! Besides, _Malfoy_ isn't going to do anything! What kind of trouble could he cause? He's wandless and he has nowhere to go, no allies – nothing. _He_ _handed himself over_ _to us!_"

"You-know-who could be relying on our better natures –"

"Well he'd be sorely disappointed," Hermione interrupted darkly and Harry sighed and gave he a look that asked her to _just wait_ for him to explain. "Sorry, go on, Harry."

"He might think that we'd be quite likely to just accept Malfoy's word, and let him…let him be under close guard but able to wander freely, socialise with Order members. Which would put Malfoy in the perfect position to start feeding information out to you-know-who." Harry lowered his voice even further, shooting furtive glances at Narcissa, "You-know-who has no idea where our base of operations is, and I'm sure he must be getting desperate to find out. Nothing must be irking him more than the fact that we are able to attack and then disappear – with no way for him to strike at our base. So far. And you-know-who isn't bothered by sending Malfoy – or anyone – on missions with small chances of success. He views most of his followers as expendable. If he thought there was even a tiny chance that Malfoy might succeed in informing you-know-who of our location…he'd do it."

Hermione shook her head firmly. "No. No, there's no way." She believed that Draco's defection was genuine. She didn't _want_ to believe otherwise; didn't want to think that all of it had been an act. Didn't think it _could_ be. He was miserable and scared and angry, and none of it was a bloody act; Hermione would have been able to tell. "That's not… It's highly unlikely, Harry. I don't think Malfoy's lying, and besides that, I _don't_ think that's you-know-who 's style."

"I know him better than you, Hermione. _I've seen in his head_," Harry hissed under his breath. Hermione saw Tonks' and Remus watching them surreptitiously from her peripheral vision, and tried to ignore them. "I don't think he's lying. I don't think he's a spy," she insisted, and an unoccupied corner of her mind wondered for the hundredth – _millionth_ – time why she was defending Draco Malfoy so vehemently.

"Snape did it!" Harry's retort was loud, and Narcissa's blank pale blue-grey eyes rested on the pair of them. Harry's lips flattened together and he led Hermione out into the hallway by the arm with a nod to Tonks and Lupin, shutting the door behind them. He picked up where he'd left off, "For years. Dumbledore was _convinced_ Snape was on our side. Except he wasn't. He was spying, for all those years. Insinuating himself with our side, getting all the inside information. Couldn't Malfoy be doing that?"

Hermione fixed Harry with a dry, disbelieving look, "You're _clutching_, Harry. Snape didn't _amputate his hand_ to play the part. Or _Imperius _his mother and bring her along. There's no reason not to believe Malfoy, and no reason to keep them from at least _seeing_ each other." She waited while Harry stared searchingly at her, a vague puzzled suspicion in his expression. At last he said, "_You're_ very concerned about him."

Hermione felt flustered at the implication and rolled her eyes, annoyance at Harry bleeding through in her tone, "I feel sorry for him, Harry. Have you seen him? I mean, really _seen him_? It's hard _not_ to feel sorry for him."

Harry didn't quite seem convinced and that irritated Hermione. What did he think she was – some silly little girl that Draco had twisted around his finger? Fooled with his charm? Merlin, that was probably just what Harry was wondering, and he couldn't be more wrong. Draco wasn't charming in the slightest. All he had going for him was his ability to play the pity card, and from the way he had reacted when she had said she felt sorry for him, she didn't think that was his strategy somehow.

Harry rubbed the a hand over his faintly stubbled jaw, "He was on the other side for years, Hermione. He was a Death Eater! I feel sorry for him too." He paused and rumpled his hair ruefully, adding, "Sort of… But do you really think we can trust that he doesn't have some sort of ulterior motive?"

"I think his only motive is keeping him and his mother safe from you-know-who. I think we can trust him, yes. And even if he couldn't, there's no way he could get information out to you-know-who, not with all the wards on the house – and certainly not without a wand." Hermione crossed her arms and stared Harry down, "There's no reason whatsoever to keep Malfoy and his mother apart. Why are you so insistent on it? Are you just _trying_ to make them both miserable or something?"

Harry shrugged, tired green eyes clouding over for a moment, "I can't deny that it's nice to have things the other way around for a change." His tone was flippant and Hermione frowned in response, her eyebrows scrunching together. This wasn't something to be flippant about. "Harry it's not a joke. You're supposed to be better than they are."

He was offended by her implication, and immediately got defensive. Something about Draco seemed to bring out the worst in Harry; he had a knee-jerk reaction to the Slytherin. "I _am_ better than him, Hermione! If I were him, then I'd be trying to kill people, hurting people, and being an active member of a group that tortures and murders innocent people! How could you say that, Hermione?" Harry scowled, hurt and angry with Hermione, and she felt awful. Now she was fighting with Harry over Draco?

"You aren't exactly treating him humanely, Harry. What about the Geneva Conventions? I know that they don't apply to the wizarding world, of course, but shouldn't you want to follow them anyway?"

"How are we not?" Harry asked indignantly and Hermione thought back, trying to remember the school assignment she had done on the Geneva Conventions at the tender age of eight. She had been a rather precocious eight-year-old.

"Um…prisoners of war, which I suppose Dra- Malfoy counts as, are not allowed to be physically or mentally tortured, or otherwise coerced… And they have rights to proper hygiene – which Malfoy _doesn't_ have, Harry. And, um…clothing? All he has are the things he arrived in and they're filthy." Hermione racked her brain, "And religious, intellectual or physical activities should be available to them." She looked at her friend with a distressed expression as she realised, "Harry! We're not following any of those except for the bit about the torture and coercion. We aren't even following the Geneva Conventions!"

He took his glasses off and polished the lenses, face drawn as he mulled over her words, their import sinking in. Hermione herself was horrified – they hadn't followed the rules! She – she always followed the rules. The Geneva Conventions were there for a reason, and although the wizarding world and wizarding war weren't totally analogous to the muggle one, they should still be thinking of these sorts of things.

She told Harry so, and he nodded wearily, "I know Hermione. We should have. But…I'd rather Malfoy was miserable than have even the smallest chance that the Order members here could be put in danger."

"We're _always_ in danger, Harry. And that's an _excuse_. You're treating Malfoy like this because you just don't care. Because you don't like him. But...but I don't like him either, and I see how he is right now…and I don't like seeing it. I feel…guilty." Hermione admitted quietly, and the two friends looked at each other for a long, sobering moment.

"Isn't there a saying; that you should judge the quality of a man not by how he treats his friends, but by how he treats his enemies?"

Harry looked down at the floor, her words sinking in, "He can see her. Briefly. You – you do it, Hermione?" He swallowed and Hermione was alarmed by his manner. "Why can't you?"

"I – I think I need to talk to Ron." He backed off a few steps, distracted and edgy, "Thanks 'Mione. And – don't leave them alone together, okay?"

"Wait, what? Harry's, what's going on? Why do you need to speak to Ron?" Hermione's brain scrambled and then suddenly she thought she understood. Harry was already at the top of the stairs halfway down the long hallway from her when she yelled after him, "Harry! Harry, _what did Ron_ _do_?"

"I – I'll tell you later – you better get back in there." And with that he fled down the stairs with a fleeting apologetic glance at Hermione.

"Harry!" Hermione shouted again and stamped her foot in a fit of pique, but he was gone. She was torn, wanting to chase after him, corner Ronald and make them both explain themselves, but… Hermione's furious glare fell on the door to Lupin and Tonks' room. But, unfortunately Harry had left her a job to do. She scowled. Harry. She _would_ find him; the house wasn't _that _big. She didn't let herself dwell on what exactly it was Ron had done to Draco – or was doing. Or was going to do. Merlin, Hermione _hated_ not knowing things.

# # #

"Down here, Mrs Malfoy." Hermione heaved the heavy trapdoor open, "Remus, Tonks', could you wait here?"

"Are you sure, Hermione?"

Hermione glanced at Narcissa, staring down through the trapdoor opening into the dim cellar with hungry eyes, unable to hide her emotions anymore it seemed. Narcissa had accepted her current situation with cold resignation so far rather than lashing out, and Hermione didn't think there was any chance she would start being difficult now. She just wanted to see for herself that her son was alive and unharmed. "I'm sure." Hermione nodded and directed Narcissa down the stairs with a wave of her hand, following behind with her wand held loosely by her side.

"Granger?" Draco called, dully curious as they descended the stairs, and Hermione heard Narcissa's gasp at the sound of her only child's voice.

"Draco? Draco, it's me?" Narcissa picked her skirts up in her hands and nearly ran the last few steps to the cellar floor. Hermione stopped halfway down the stairs, feeling like she shouldn't be present. It was too intimate a moment for her to witness. Draco lay on his bed in that grey shirt and black trousers, his left arm draped over his eyes. And then Narcissa cried out his name, and he struggled bolt upright, "Mother?" The one word was taut with shock and relief, and he stared at Narcissa with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Narcissa stood at the bottom of the cellar steps in profile to Hermione, and the young woman saw a smile touch Narcissa's mouth faintly, softening her cold, haughty features. Hermione's eyes darted to Draco, and she smiled herself as immense relief and happiness lit him up.

It was gratifying, Hermione admitted, to know that Draco was happy because of something that _she_ had done. She wasn't sure what to do with that thought, so she filed it away for later consideration, and watched the scene unfolding before her, a warm feeling in her stomach.

And then the happiness visibly drained from Draco. "I'm sorry." There was an expectation of hurt in his face, his voice miserable as he slid to the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped as his eyes locked on his mother. Hermione only remembered just then what it might mean for Draco, to have put his mother under the _Imperius_ and taken her away from her husband. But from what Hermione had seen since Narcissa had first been woken, her feelings toward her son right now were overwhelmingly love and worry. Narcissa took a few hesitant steps forward towards her son. "You did what you thought was best, Draco. I understand." The woman said, "_Of course_ you had to go, after…after what happened. I just wish…"

"I'm so sorry, mother," he said again like a child, and from her darkened place on the stairs Hermione saw Draco's mouth quiver and his chin tremble with brewing tears. "No. No, don't be sorry." Hermione couldn't see Narcissa's face as the older witch walked toward Draco, but she didn't need to; the woman's voice overflowed with pain and love. "I love you. I haven't said it enough. Haven't…haven't shown it very well. But I do, Draco."

The aloof, pale woman – so like her son – stopped a few feet away from Draco, and held out her arms. Hermione watched as Draco scrambled to his feet and wrapped his arms tightly around his mother. They clung to each other for a moment; Narcissa's face pressed into one broad, skinny shoulder. Draco's maimed arm lay across his mother's back, and the sight of it, still present even in this happy moment of Draco's made Hermione desperately sad. She thought maybe he was crying, but she couldn't tell from where she stood. Hermione had never felt more like an intruder in her life. And yet she couldn't pull her eyes away. It was so strange, seeing Draco clinging to his mother and, if not actually crying, then on the verge of tears. Hermione held her wand tightly in one sweaty palm and pressed her lips tightly together, moisture prickling at her own eyes.

They broke away awkwardly from their hug and Draco looked down at Narcissa with worry and asked, "Are you all right? They haven't treated you badly?" Narcissa shook her head shortly, "They only woke me a short time ago. Apparently they kept me asleep until now." Draco nodded, "That's what Herm– they told me, too." Hermione's eyes darted about unseeingly as her mind raced and her brow furrowed. He had been about to say her name. And not just her name, but her _first_ name. Just how _he_ had crept into her consciousness as a person that she thought of by his first name – without her even wanting to think of him that way. It had just happened. So, they were both, what? Starting to see each other as something other than a mudblood and a Death Eater? As _friends_? _No_. Ridiculous. Hermione denied the possibility, but her heart beat just a little faster and she felt inexplicably nervous and unsettled.

"What about you? They obviously haven't been treating you well. My poor boy," Narcissa said, all indignant concern, and Draco shrugged, "It hasn't been all that pleasant, no. But it _has_ been an improvement on the Dark Lord's treatment of me." Narcissa flinched and Hermione strained her vision to see the woman's hooded eyes darken and her face chill so very slightly, "Look at you, Draco!" Narcissa brushed the backs of her fingers over one of Draco's thin cheeks and tsked at the grubbiness. "You're a _Malfoy_ – they have no right to treat you like this. Blood traitors and mudbloods, mistreating my dear boy."

"Father disowned me. I'm not a Malfoy anymore, mother, not really," Draco said dully.

"He did what he had to do, Draco… I wish – I _wish_ he could take it all back. So much. But of course, it's too late, now." Narcissa swept slim white fingers beneath her eyes and shook her head, "It's too late. I am so sorry, Draco. But if it hadn't been your father, it would have been someone else. You know that. That Dark Lord…he would not be moved, no matter how much I pleaded. And I did, Draco, I swear to you I did." Narcissa clutched at her son as Hermione watched with slowly dawning horror.

Draco detached his mother's clutching hands gently from his shoulders and looked down at her with sad resignation. The atmosphere in the cellar had altered, and Hermione felt her wand slip in her tight grasp, as her palms grew damp with nervous sweat.

"Regardless," he said composedly, "The accommodations here, crude as they may be, are preferable to the luxurious prison of my bedroom suite at the Manor." There was superciliousness in Draco's tone that made Hermione's lips twitch with a weak smile for some reason. He continued, "And although my jailers are mostly an unpleasant group, they…aren't all so terrible. And neither do they torture me, as I was tortured in my own home. By –" He broke off and ran his hand through his hair, shut his eyes as though trying not to remember.

"Blood traitors and mudbloods." Narcissa dismissed the Order in a sweeping statement of impressively offhand bigotry. "Why, it was that _mudblood_, Hermione Granger who brought me down here." Narcissa indicated in Hermione's direction and Hermione squirmed with embarrassment as Draco finally noticed her standing there on the stairs. She looked quickly down at the toes of her sneakers and avoided his eyes, and then heard Narcissa continue, "The one Bellatrix tortured, wasn't she? It was _her_ fault that you lost favour with the Dark Lord, and now she's your jailer? It's wrong. She's a mudblood, and they are inferior and we purebloods, are _superior_." Narcissa sounded distressed, and Hermione couldn't believe that someone could be so casual about their bigotry - and within earshot of Hermione. It was…unbelievable.

She tried not to think about the torture.

She didn't know if she wanted to hear Draco's response.

"Mother…Mother, I _defected_," he explained firmly but gently, "There was more than one reason for that." Hermione's head snapped up. Draco was disagreeing about the validity of _blood purity_? Narcissa seemed just as shocked as Hermione, wringing her hands together and gazing pleadingly up at her son, "Draco… Draco, I know you had to leave the Dark Lord's service for your own safety, and I'm glad you did and you're safe now… But surely – _surely_ – you're not saying you don't believe in blood purity anymore?" Draco shrugged and his gaze slipped away from his mother's, landing on Hermione's almost by chance. "I don't know what I believe, mother. Maybe I don't anymore," he said tiredly; speaking to Narcissa, but with his eyes still glued to Hermione's. She smiled at him, small and faintly encouraging.

"Draco, your father and I brought you up to –" Narcissa fumbled for words, and then said, "How dare you turn your back on everything we have done for you! We tried to give you the best in everything, to give you a sense of pride and of your natural place in the world. All the best tutors when you were at home over the holidays, all the best things, the best–"

"No. No, you _don't_ get to speak for father. You _don't_. Not now, and not _ever_ again. I don't care _what_ you – and he – think he _gave_ to me; it can never, ever equal what he took away from me." Draco half-snarled at his mother and Hermione thought of how just five minutes ago they had been embracing happily, and her heart broke just the smallest amount for Draco. And hot, sick thrills ran through her belly as Hermione thought she realised what Draco was talking about.

"He is a fine man." Narcissa said insistently and Hermione wondered whom she was trying to convince more – Draco, or herself. Draco's features contorted with pain, pleading with her to understand, "Mother. Mother, I love you, I do. But I can't think of him that way. I really can't."

"If it hadn't been him, it would have been someone else," Narcissa repeated herself and Hermione's fingers were slick around her wand, and her heart pounded in her chest. Surely they _couldn't_ mean… But Draco was speaking and Hermione listened, "Good! Good! That would have been better. That's how it should have been. _It shouldn't have been_ _my father!_" Draco paused, said more quietly, "It shouldn't have been him. But he didn't refuse. And it was. And I can't forgive that. Not ever."

Narcissa reached out to touch Draco's cheek again and he jerked back. She sighed. "I think perhaps I should leave now. Before you say anything else you might regret." Hermione wanted to hex the woman on Draco's behalf, but instead she thumped on the trapdoor for Lupin and Tonks, anticipating needing them to take Narcissa away. "I think maybe that would be best," Draco answered, distant now, only the slightest traces of his emotions remaining. "Very well." Narcissa didn't seem to want to leave; looking back over her shoulder at Draco as she walked away and ascended the stairs. She seemed to be waiting for him to call her back. He stared after her sadly. "Mother?" She stopped a few steps below Hermione. "Yes, Draco?" Her voice was formal but threads of hope wove through it. "I'm glad you're all right," was all he said. Narcissa just nodded and turned away, and Hermione saw Draco's face fall even further, his shoulders slump.

The trapdoor creaked open just as Narcissa reached the step below Hermione's, and Hermione stuck her head up into the dining room. "Tonks?" She asked the witch, whose hair was a startlingly green colour at present, "Could you and Remus take Mrs Malfoy back upstairs for the moment?"

"You aren't coming up?"

"Not yet."

"Fair 'nuff." Tonks' face was so expressionless that Hermione suspected she was hiding something. "Go on," Hermione told Narcissa rudely, and then nodded amicably at Tonks as the older woman closed the trapdoor behind Narcissa.

Hermione turned around and started slowly down the stairs. Draco stood by his bed, staring at the door his mother had disappeared through. He looked like total shite, poor thing. Hermione blinked at the thought. She stopped a couple of feet away from him, swinging her arms in small, nervous motions by her sides. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry I saw that. I know you would have preferred privacy, but Harry insisted that if your mother was going to see you it had to be supervised," Hermione babbled. Draco smiled close-lipped in tired amusement at her and the expression was surprisingly sweet, dulled eyes lighting up with silver life for a moment. "It's fine, Granger." Hermione's fingers intertwined nervously, her wand shove half in her pocket. "And I'm sorry…I thought it would be a good thing, seeing her. But I guess…"

Draco nodded, "Again; it's fine, Granger. You weren't to know." He paused and then added, "I knew it would be you. Who convinced the others to let me see her."

Hermione had two questions buzzing in her brain, and she didn't know which to ask first, and she was pretty sure she had no right to ask either.

"What, Granger?"

"You were talking to your mother, and I couldn't help hearing – not that I was _trying _to listen…" _That_ was a lie, "I just couldn't help it. But…"

"Ask, Granger." Draco gave her brusque permission, expression closing off and hardening, like a defence mechanism. Hermione took a deep breath, shuffled on her feet nervously and somehow the movements took her slightly closer to him, so she had to tilt her head back the smallest amount to meet his eyes.

"You really don't know what you believe anymore?" She frowned, waved a hand, and clarified, "To do with blood, I mean."

He met her eyes clearly, "I really don't."

"So you don't think mudbloods like me deserve to be tortured and murdered, anymore, then?" she pushed, and he flinched and fleeting guilt crossed his features, but he didn't look away, "No. _No_, Hermione." He said her name and his voice was fierce as he recoiled from what he had believed, and she could nearly _see_ the memories in his eyes.

"Well…that's good, isn't it?"

He chuckled cynically. "Not so good for _me_, if I'm to be selfish, which I frequently am. Life would be a hell of a lot simpler if I thought like my mother does. It would contain a lot less torture and terror."

Hermione smiled a little, "But you _don't_ think like she does, now."

"Why do you care what I think? It's not like I can do anything to hurt anyone now, so why does it matter what I believe?" Draco asked quietly, closing the gap between them further so she had to look up. It was intimidating, almost, but Hermione knew Draco didn't mean it to really _be _intimidating. She gulped. "Because I don't want to be just a _mudblood_. Not to you – not to _anyone_." Draco's eyes scanned her face and he nodded, seemingly satisfied with whatever he had seen there, "Fair enough."

They were standing close. Barely a foot between them, and Hermione realised what a really very small distance a foot was. Hardly any space at all; she could feel faint warmth radiating off his body even though, as always, he looked too cold. It gave her a chance, she told herself, to really look at him, for possibly the first time ever. She had never bothered to really _look _at him before, without her brain layering over what she saw with her hatred for him. She was just interested, she told herself. And… Draco was stubbled – but it looked quite good, Hermione had to admit – and his hair needed a good wash, his clothes smelt faintly of sweat, and he was _definitely_ still too thin. But Hermione looked at him and saw his eyes, luminous in the dim light as he looked at her without a trace of malice, his lips not sneering but smiling at her faintly but genuine. He seemed suddenly far too appealing and she realised she had been just _staring_ at him silently, and blinked rapidly, cleared her throat. Draco did similar, both of them equally uncomfortable it seemed, and Hermione's heart thudded hard.

Hermione shook her head and made her mind focus, "And I was wondering…?" She began quietly and Draco nodded with impatient encouragement as she trailed off, "What, Hermione? Just bloody ask, already." _Hermione_. He had used her first name again, so casually, and she didn't think he even knew he'd done it.

"Your hand… They both looked down at the maimed limb in unison, almost sandwiched between their bodies they stood so close together. "When you were talking to your mother…" Hermione met Draco's eyes, empathy making her want to cry as she asked, "Your father did it, didn't he?" The air changed. Draco's face closed off and grew bitter and he took a halting step back from her. Hermione felt a chill as he distanced himself, the damp cool air of the cellar biting into her. He tensed, but his eyes didn't leave hers, "Yes." He answered shortly, and pain etched itself into the lines around his mouth, the set of his eyes, which a moment ago had been almost warm. Warm on her.

Hermione thought automatically of her own father. Her childhood; the books he had read to her at bedtime, the days out, just the two of them, to a different place every month – the museum, the zoo, picnics at the park… And when she got older and left for Hogwarts, those outings became a day out when Hermione was home from school in the holidays. Book shopping, seeing a movie together, picnics just like when she was a child. Hermione remembered the way he had always been so proud of her marks at Hogwarts, even though he hadn't understood the subjects in the slightest. The love in his arms the last time he had hugged her before Hermione had _obliviated_ both her him and her mum. The worry and protective anger in his eyes when Hermione had told her parents about a young Draco Malfoy being awful to her and calling her a mudblood. Hermione's dad would die before letting Hermione be hurt, and the idea of him hurting her himself…it was something she _knew_ he would never, ever do. The very idea was abhorrent.

But Draco's father would do it – _had_ done it – and Hermione couldn't help the gasp that tore from her throat as Draco confirmed her suspicions with that jagged, reluctant _yes_. Fathers were supposed to _protect_ their children not… As much as Lucius Malfoy had always been evil and horrible, Hermione had assumed that he would never be like that to his own son. She remembered the look of eager-to-please adoration in a small Draco's smug, infuriating face as he stood by his father's side, the conceited pride as Draco had bragged of '_my_ _father'_. Hermione stared at the haggard, disillusioned Draco that stood a few feet from her and wondered how much it had hurt him, when that little boy's hero-worship been dashed to smithereens.

"My god, Draco… I can't believe…" She spoke without thinking, the very idea of Lucius Malfoy having done that to _his own son_ so alien, so awful, that Hermione couldn't comprehend it. But Draco took her words as a denial and his pale skin flushed burning red high on his cheeks, "Well believe it," he snapped, "Because he did."

"No – it's not that I don't believe you!" Hermione stared into Draco's eyes, all ice and steel now, and her heart ached for the little boy he had once been. "I just…he's your _father_. How _could_ he?" How must it feel, to every day carry around the memory of your own father maiming you? Draco just shrugged, "He's Lucius Malfoy," he said as though that explained everything, trying to be flippant, dismissive. Hermione had thought Lucius Malfoy had lines even he wouldn't cross. Apparently not. "Draco, I'm so sorry." She realised belatedly that she was speaking his first name aloud, but couldn't bring herself to care. "I'm sorry," she repeated awkwardly.

Draco looked away from her sympathetic face; eyes going to his arm, his mouth twisting. "I don't want your fucking pity, Granger," he grated out, the muscles in his jaw twitching tensely as he looked down at the stump of his wrist. "It's not pity, Draco," Hermione said calmly. And it wasn't. It was more than just that. "Well what is it then, Granger? Because I seem to recall you telling me that there wasn't anything else." He smirked at her, the expression flat and cold. "Because we dislike each other, don't we? _There isn't anything else_." Hermione closed the gap between them and reached out. Her hand settled on his forearm – the injured limb. Not the stump; to be honest she was almost a little frightened of touching that, but the crinkled fabric of his shirt rolled to just below his elbow.

Draco looked down at her hand, and the line of his mouth hardened, but didn't he didn't shake it off. Hermione shrugged, "I like you well enough – when you're not being an obnoxious, evil prick, you're actually not unbearable," she said, an inelegant reassurance, and he grinned at her. Just for a split second Draco's eyes had crinkled and one corner of his mouth had pulled up into a lopsided, almost dorky grin that transformed him. And then it was gone, like clouds sweeping in front of the sun, and he was grey and cold once more, "Then I suppose you don't like me very often then. If ever," he said, and Hermione bit her lip. "Since you've been…here, I." She stopped, not sure what to say. Her hand was still on Draco's arm, the grey silk soft beneath her fingertips. "I don't hate you, Draco." He was cold and still, and then he said gravely, like it was a precious secret he was sharing with her, "I don't hate you either. Hermione." Draco added her name deliberately. The corners of his mouth lifted again, his eyes thawed, and Hermione smiled back at him.

"Do – do you want to talk about…?" Hermione tried again, rephrasing to, "_If_ you want to talk about…your father, about what happened," Her fingers stroked firmly over the thin material of his shirt, thumb rubbing over the inside of his elbow in small motions. "Then I can listen. And I won't tell anyone. I swear." Draco's hand folded over her smaller one, stilling the movements she hadn't known she'd been making. His hand was dry and cool on hers. They both stared at their hands laid together, an alien sight. "No. I, I think I'd quite like to be alone right now, actually." Draco said at last, eyes apologetic, and Hermione nodded understandingly. Her hand slipped from beneath his, away from his injured limb, and it felt cold and lonesome.

"I'll…see you later on then. Maybe...dinner? I mean, I might bring it to you. Dinner, that is." Hermione shoved her hands in her back pockets and backed away from him, not knowing what on earth to say in this odd, fragile moment. Her cheerful, awkward tone broke it, and Draco looked from her eyes down to his feet. "Yes. Yeah. I'll be here," he said inanely and then added wryly with a glance up at the trapdoor, "_Of_ _course_ I'll be here."

Hermione spent her evening curled up on an armchair in the lounge and appearing lost in a book, while inwardly she was really staring at the pages blankly and wondering if she and Draco Malfoy were becoming…friends.

# # #

_Author's Notes: _This was meant to be a super-sweet chapter, with Draco's reunion with Narcissa going perfectly, except then I started writing and it came out like this… Sad :( But I think it still has a lot of really sweet little moments, and I think it's more realistic that Draco and his mother would react the way I had them react, than a sweet perfectly happy reunion.

How is the romance? Are things between Draco and Hermione progressing in a realistic manner? Is there anything you would like to see? Am I taking things too fast?

Please _review_ and let me know your thoughts!


	9. Wait Like the Dawn

_Author's Note: _A little teensy-weensy bit of _heat_ just for you, my amazing and awesome favourite-ers, followers and reviewers. I appreciate every little bit of feedback I get :D Now read on and, I hope –

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Montage**__** – Part One**_

_**Wait Like the Dawn**_

Draco had spent most of the afternoon huddled up on his bed trying not to cry. He had mostly failed, and soaked his pillow with hot tears. He sighed. He seemed to have run out of tears, and now he was left feeling numb and tired, with scratchy eyes and a sore throat, and a wet patch on his pillow. It was all finally sinking in, now. His world was utterly destroyed, and he was never going to be able to put it back together, even if he wanted to. And he didn't, mostly. Whenever he started wishing nothing had changed, Draco made himself remember.

The muggle boy – only twelve or so – that he had obediently used the _cruciatus_ on until he had gone mad. The mudbl– the muggleborn woman he had almost killed with _sectumsempra_ – and the only reason he hadn't was because Snape had stepped in and murmured _avada kedavra _disdainfully before she had a chance to bleed out. Remembered the anguish in the screams and sobs that came from the great hall, when the Dark Lord held a revel. The day Draco had walked into his father's study, and found him atop a crying muggle girl.

No. Draco didn't want to go back to that. Now he had gotten free of it, it was like he could see it all clearly, for the first time in his life. He was horribly ashamed by what he had taken part in, what he had watched and thought nothing of. He had thrown up several times since Hermione had left him that morning. Literally sickened by his memories. Draco thought it was seeing his mother that had triggered it; all the tears and the memories and the final realisation deep in his bones that no, he could never go back. Hearing her speak so casually about Hermione's torture, after Hermione had been the only one who had sown any concern for Draco had been jarring. To look in his mother's eyes and see blind adoration for the cause, to hear her try to defend Draco's father to him… Draco loved his mother, but he had looked at her pale, beautiful face, and realised that he wasn't like her, not anymore – and he didn't want to be.

It was strangely freeing. Or that was what he tried to tell himself, as he scrubbed at his tearstained cheeks and thought of everything he had lost. And what had he gained? A world that either despised him or didn't know he existed, and a bushy-haired, know-it-all muggleborn who should have hated him just as much as the rest, but instead…didn't. Draco had never thought he would be glad to have Hermione Granger in his life, but damnit, he was. She should despise him just for what he was – an ex-Death Eater. But instead she was trying to be nice to him. Trying, and not failing too badly at all. And he didn't know what the hell to do.

Draco had never before interacted so much with someone that didn't have ulterior motives, or was secretly plotting to do him some sort of harm, or gain some sort of control over him. He – he didn't think he'd ever had a _friend_. Not that Hermione was a friend, he reminded himself, but… He'd had cronies, lackeys, servants, allies, but never a real, actual friend. Draco didn't even _know_ how to be just genuinely nice to people. He sighed and flipped his pillow over, putting the wet patch against the bed, and stretched out on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling above him. There were no other options available to him that he wanted to take, so he might as well try to make the best of what he had. He snorted cynically at the idea, but sincerely tried to think positive thoughts.

It wasn't easy.

# # #

Hermione took Draco breakfast the day after Narcissa's visit with a spring in her step. She had lain awake most of the night trying to figure out what she was going to do, and somewhere around two am Draco Malfoy had become a Project. Hermione had figured it all out in what had _seemed _like a logical fashion – for two am. She had even dug out a quick quotes quill and scrap of parchment, and made a bullet-pointed list.

What it had boiled down to was essentially this; Draco wasn't evil anymore, he had lost everything, he was miserable, and alone, and Hermione was pretty certain he was depressed. Hermione was the only one that was _ever_ going to treat him fairly and give him a chance to prove himself, and therefore she felt a responsibility to do so. Plus, the more she saw of him, strangely, the less she dreamed about the Manor. It was almost as if being around him really _was_ desensitising her to the memories of what had happened. She still wanted to cry when she saw herself naked; the words scrawled into her flesh, but she didn't feel so anxious and panicky the rest of the time.

And at 2:37 am, Hermione had admitted to herself that a large part of her just felt desperately sorry for him, and wanted to make him smile.

But that just sounded stupid and illogical and…dangerous, so she focused on the _sensible_ motivations for what, at 4:02 am she had named Project Cheer Up Malfoy, or CHUM for short. There had been much quiet, sleep-deprived giggling involved, as she had tried to think of names that didn't result in horrific acronyms like SPEW. Hermione had thought CHUM was appropriate, given the purpose of her self-assigned mission.

And now she stood in front of the cellar with a tray of breakfast in her hands, trying to bolster herself with a silent pep talk. _You are going to be cheerful. But you will not drown him in a flood of conversation. You will be friendly. You will not think about the look in his eyes as he watched you be tortured. _Hermione gulped and refocused quickly. _You will call him Draco and smile at him. You will not stare at his arm. You will __not__ ask him personal questions. _There seemed to be far more do-nots than dos on Hermione's list, and her palms started sweating. _You will be fine._ She told herself and tried to believe it as she descended into the cellar, a subdued Ron – she had _talked_ to him last night about Draco – dropping the door shut above her.

"Good morning." She called as she reached the cellar floor, and then snapped her mouth shut, breath catching. Draco was asleep. In the bed instead of on the floor, splayed out with the blankets rumpled down to his waist, his shirt unbuttoned and fallen open. In the low, bluish light his bare skin looked moonlit it was so pale. Hermione set the tray quietly down on the table with a click and bit her lip, not sure what to do. CHUM had called for her to spend some time with him, at least while he ate breakfast. She even had a packet of exploding snap in the pocket of her hoodie for them to play. Not that she liked the game, and she doubted Draco would either…but it was something to pass the time with for a little while. And if Hermione snuck back out now without waking Draco up, then she wouldn't have an excuse to see him until lunchtime. And Hermione didn't really feel comfortable coming down here without an excuse.

She wandered over to the bed, and vacillated over whether to shake him awake or not. CHUM was not off to a promising start.

As she stared at him, debating the matter, Hermione got sidetracked. She had never seen Draco like this before. Fast asleep, fingers on his left and only hand twitching slightly as he mumbled something unintelligible. His eyebrows were strikingly dark in comparison to his hair, a sheaf of which fell over his forehead and into his eyes as he shifted his head on the pillow. His maimed arm was laid stiffly over his abdomen; he was protective of the limb even in sleep. Beneath his arm his torso was too skinny; his ribs showed, thrown into in sharp relief by the dim light, easily countable. And here on his skin there was more evidence of his last few months with the Death Eaters. Hermione forgot about waking him up as she took in the marks of his refusal to partake in the Death Eater lifestyle any longer.

The worst, apart from his hand of course, was a large scar in the middle of his chest – a healing burn wound. It looked almost as though someone had thrown a fireball at him, and Hermione thought with a wince of sympathy, that if it looked that way, then that was probably what had happened. The scar was shiny and pink, around the size of Hermione's splayed out hand. But there were other scars too, so many more. Obviously he had never been allowed to see a medi-witch, because the wounds mostly looked like they had been healing without any magical assistance at all. Some of them looked like they had been caused by curses, and therefore were irremovable by magic, but others might just need the attention of a healer. Hermione reminded herself vaguely to speak to Tricia Fideloff.

Her eyes continued their slow sweep of him.

A series of scars swirled almost artistically over the right side of Draco's abdomen, and Hermione shivered; she recognised his Aunt Bellatrix's handiwork. She liked her cursed blades, did Bellatrix. Hermione rubbed the scars on her chest as unwelcome thoughts of them made them itch at her. Smaller, nearly invisible scars striped his chest, and there was a small brand by his bellybutton that looked like it came from a signet ring. Hermione gulped, unable to stop herself from imagining how all his many injuries must have been inflicted. How scared he must have been.

She had been pinned to the Manor floor like an insect, with Draco watching it all. Everything. She had begged for him to help and he hadn't. Hermione shut her eyes, her hand stretching out toward the ornate cut marks on his abdomen, as though touching his wounds would heal them. She had begged for him to help her, to kill her to make it stop, and although she hadn't thought so at the time – and for a good long time afterwards – he had done what he could, without getting himself killed.

Hermione opened her eyes and stared at the old injuries, her fingers scant inches from his stomach. The story these scars told was of a situation essentially the same as hers, except it hadn't been an old enemy standing there and refusing to help. It had been his parents. Like she was in a trance, Hermione's fingertips barely touched the ridged scars, traced over them ever so lightly. The ridged swirls were uneven, thin, and the scar tissue felt strange under her feather touch.

Draco mumbled and shifted his maimed arm so that it half-covered the scars, and Hermione snatched her hand back just in time, fingers curling up into her palm, heart thudding frantically in her chest. She didn't know what had gotten into her; standing over him and, and _touching_ him like that. It was just that…they were the same, in a way. Linked by the marks Voldemort and his followers had inflicted on them both. But Hermione couldn't just stand here staring at him while he slept. That was just _weird_.

"Draco." She murmured, laying her hand on his right shoulder softly. "Draco, wake up."

"Isssofe pa flibbermift," he tried to shake her hand off by rolling onto his side and Hermione snorted quietly at his nonsense words. She shook his left shoulder this time, as he lay curled into a ball facing her. "Draco!" She called it louder this time and then jumped and let out a stifled shriek as he reacted instantly. "Wha?" Draco jerked bolt upright and scrabbled for something under his pillow that wasn't there. _His wand?_ she wondered. Then his eyes cleared and for a moment embarrassment flared. He swung around so he sat on the edge of the bed, bare feet on the floor. "Oh, it's you." He said shortly, and looked down at his mostly bare torso, and immediately started trying to do up the buttons on his shirt. Hermione glanced down at her toes, the wall, the stairs; anywhere but at the half-awake, half-embarrassed Draco Malfoy sitting sort of shirtless in front of her and swearing at his buttons.

Maybe she could help? She decided asking couldn't hurt, and opened her mouth and out came the dreadful words, "Do you need a hand?" Hermione went white, then red, face burning with mortification as Draco looked slowly up and fixed her with a look of fury warring with utter disbelief. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry I didn't mean – I was just – it was automatic. I'm sorry!" He stared at her for a long moment, nostrils flaring as he closed his eyes deliberately, and Hermione waited nervously for the explosion of cold rage she was sure was coming. And she wouldn't blame him either. How on earth had she said something so _stupid_? She may as well just sit down and wedge both her feet in her big mouth. His face was working with emotion, lips pressed together so hard they went white. And then he let out a sigh and opened his grey eyes. "I'm sure it was, Granger," he said, the acidity in his voice enough to curdle milk, and then, the familiar old insult, "Didn't your muggle parents teach you to think before you speak?"

Hermione licked her lips, "I'm sorry, Draco." She put every ounce of effort she had into trying to communicate her sincerity with the simple apology, and Draco's lips twisted but he nodded once, accepting it. He stood and she backed off as he turned half away from her and began another attempt at buttoning his shirt. Hermione discreetly craned her neck to try to see how Draco was trying to do it, and she saw how his truncated right arm pinned one side of his shirt against his body, left hand trying to fumble the buttons into the holes. "I brought breakfast," she said, head tilted downward, but eyes peering up at him. "Right," was all he said in a strained tone, and then quietly but ferociously, "_Fuck_. _Fuck!_"

Hermione dragged her lower lip between her teeth repeatedly and chewed on the inside, still looking surreptitiously up at Draco from under her lashes. He had stopped trying to wrestle with his shirt, and was standing now with drooping shoulders, pushing his hand through his hair and dragging with too hard frustration at clumps of it. He was the picture of angry defeat, and Hermione sighed shortly, plucking up her courage. This was ridiculous. She stepped quickly over to him, stopping in front of him and Draco opened his eyes and looked down at her tiredly, "What?" There was a tremble beneath the abrasive query. Hermione didn't say anything; she didn't know what to say, and her fingers trembled like his voice as she stepped close and took his shirt in her hands and began slowly buttoning it.

"Granger…" He put his hand over hers, stilling her motions as she began on the third button. Hermione looked up at Draco and could see just how it felt for him, to need her to do this. He looked broken. _Stupid boy_, she told herself firmly, so that she didn't start sniffling with sympathy, _there's nothing weak about needing help._ She twisted her hand around beneath his and squeezed his cold fingers, kindly, and pushed his hand firmly but gently back down at his side. "It's not a big deal, Draco," she told him and he laughed, a choked, low sound. "Yes it is. Maybe not for you, Granger, but it is for me." And Hermione realised that _of course_ it was for him; not just the embarrassment but the simple fact that he _couldn't_, made it a big deal.

But Draco let Hermione's fingers keep nimbly slipping the tiny, fiddly buttons through the small buttonholes. It didn't feel terrible touching him; his warm breath on her forehead didn't bring back memories of the Manor. She didn't feel his chest rising and falling beneath her hands and think _Malfoy_, she thought _Draco_ and something small and warm seeded in her chest. And then his shirt was buttoned and Hermione smoothed her hands down the front and across his shoulders automatically, without thinking about what she was doing – it was the sort of thing she would have done with Ron, or even Harry. Smoothing out the wrinkles, making sure they were presentable. But this was Draco.

Her hands fell away and she looked up with cheeks slightly pinked and met his eyes, half-hidden behind a shaggy fall of platinum hair that he swept back as she stared up at him silently, breath tight in her throat. "There," she said in a soft approximation of her usual, cheerful tone, "All done." She shifted uncomfortably under Draco's gaze, his eyes pinned to hers and carrying a look of puzzled wonder. And then she swallowed and he blinked, and said snippily, "I'm not a child, Hermione." So she was Hermione again, was she? She tried to hide her tiny smile. "I know," she answered, and she was still standing so _near_ to him so she took a quick pace back, fiddling with the zipper on her jersey. "I could have done it," he added, a vertical frown line appearing between his brows, and Hermione's smile grew ever so slightly wider. "I know," she repeated. Draco cleared his throat uncomfortably, "But…thanks, Hermione." He looked away as he said it, awkward and sincere. "You're welcome," she answered, and without realising it, mirrored both his actions and his tone.

"Breakfast?" Hermione asked quickly to break the tension in the still air, and he nodded. Draco sat down at the table, and gave her a curious glance as she settled in on his bed, perching tailor fashion at the end and pulling out the pack of cards, turning them around in her hands. "What are you doing?" he raised an eyebrow as was his habit, and Hermione shrugged, "I thought you might like to play a game or two of exploding snap after breakfast," she said, trying to get Project CHUM back on track. Draco contorted his face into an expression of horrified disgust, "You thought _I_ might like to play _exploding snap_?" Hermione couldn't help it; she laughed at his expression and his tone; they seemed funny out of all proportion to her, and she collapsed into gasps and giggles at the end of his bed.

When Hermione finally stopped snorting and wiped the tears from her streaming eyes, Draco was watching her with that familiar look of superior amusement, and she grinned at him suddenly, "Well, no. I didn't really think _you_ would appreciate exploding snap. Neither do I, to be honest. But I don't have anything else to play." Draco tried to pretend reluctance, but Hermione could see right through him – he wanted her company, even if he wouldn't admit it right now. "Oh go on then. We'll have a bloody game after I've finished breakfast," he allowed and forked up a mouthful of scrambled egg. She watched him from under her lashes again, pretending to examine the exploding snap packet. And then he looked over at her, and Hermione knew Draco had noticed her staring at him. Before she could drop her eyes and pretend she hadn't been, Draco flashed her a quick, winsome smile around the fork, hair falling over his forehead and grey eyes bright. Hermione nearly fell off the bed in shock. Draco Malfoy, smiling. Not sadly or bitterly or nastily, just…smiling.

He looked almost…nice.

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_Author's Note: _ This was Part One of two, possibly three 'montage' chapters focused purely on Hermione and Draco – an easy and enjoyable way for me to advance their relationship quicker than I would otherwise. So, what do you think? I long to know!


	10. Turning Inside Out

_Author's Note:_ Thank you to everyone who has been leaving reviews – you guys are the best! It absolutely makes my day when I hear that people are enjoying what I've written :)

This chapter was meant to be part of several montage chapters each made up of several short scenes, but somehow this one long scene just expanded and took over and evolved into…well, it is what it is. I hope you like it!

_Enjoy!_

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**Montage**** – Part Two**

**Turning Inside Out**

It had all begun so well.

Hermione struggled down the steps into the cellar, a heavy bag in each hand, yawning. The left was heavier than the right; it was stuffed with books, and the right-hand bag had some board games and the like mixed in with a few more books. Draco looked up from the bed he spent most of his time on as she clattered noisily down. He sat up on the edge of the bed and looked at her with mild curiosity. "What are _those_?" he asked suspiciously and Hermione rolled her eyes and struggled down the last few stairs, plonking the bags down with a sigh. She was bone-weary, having sat up half the night waiting for Ron to return; he had been out on a mission to capture or kill a confirmed Death Eater sympathiser. Ron had returned in one piece, his target eliminated, not captured. Hermione didn't think he had even tried to take the sympathiser alive, although she would never – could never – ask Ron that. The growing hardness in his eyes was starting to scare Hermione, and even after his return at one am she had lain awake another three hours, worrying.

"Such gratitude, Draco." It still felt a little strange calling him that out loud, but since she'd started, just over a week ago now, she had thought it seem odd to stop. He alternated between Granger and Hermione easily – Granger mostly when he was annoyed or distant or miserable, and _Hermione_ when he…when he really, really wasn't.

"I'm not going to be grateful until I know what's in them, am I?" Draco had definitely seemed to be growing less miserable over the past few days; Hermione had been pleased to note. Project CHUM was proceeding more-or-less as planned. Unfortunately, less-unhappy Draco seemed to be very similar to obnoxious-git Draco sometimes, but without the venom. Thank Merlin for that, at least – he might be irritating but so far, never nasty. It had almost become a little game between them; snarking and snipping lightly at each other. Hermione smiled at him and waved at the bag at her right, "Books," she announced, and then dramatically indicated the bag on the left, "More books, and other fun things."

Draco stood and canted his head to one side, "I assume I can thank you for the shower I was _privileged_ to get put in down here last night?" He jerked his head over at the corner where the magically installed loo was, and Hermione saw the walled off area had increased slightly in size. "I asked Harry to put it in, yes, but I think he was going to arrange it anyway." He probably _wouldn't_ have thought of providing Draco with a shower, but Hermione wasn't going to tell Draco that. Not that he believed her story, one eyebrow cocking and a tiny smirk sparking briefly on his face, apparently amused by her loyalty to her best friend.

"Well… Thank you, Hermione. I ah, appreciate it." He ducked his head as he thanked her, and pity shuffled through her for a moment. She wondered if it still bothered him that much, having to be grateful to people, or whether he was getting used to it – getting over his stubborn, Malfoy pride. "It was as much for my benefit as for yours. I must say, you smell far more pleasant today." Draco laughed sharply and then flashed her a trademark smirk, "Smelling me now, are we Granger? Well, I can't blame you. I'm exceedingly smell-able." Hermione blushed furiously, and her sleep-deprived brain failed to come up with a sarcastic comeback. "Come on then, see what I've got you!" She ordered faux-brightly, and with a wave of her wand, deposited both bags on his bed. He lifted out a book and read the spine aloud, "Murder on the Orient Express, by Agatha Christie." He looked up at her, "_Muggle_ books, Granger?"

Hermione folded her arms and glared at him. Was it the lingering remnants of his bigotry that made his brows scrunch together and his lips form a sneer? Or just suspicion towards something he was unfamiliar with? Their interactions were still unsettled and uneasy despite the not inconsiderable amount of time they had spent together over the past week, and Hermione didn't like it. She liked to know where she stood with a person, and now that she had made Draco Malfoy her Project with a capital P, she would have liked to know what he really thought of her. Would have like to be reassured that his blood purity bigotry really was a thing of the past.

What felt like several hundred games of exploding snap and watching someone eat self-consciously while you sat and watched from lack of else to do, along with conversations that had to be tread exhaustingly carefully through – minefields of past emotional trauma and negative history – could only tell you so much about a person.

"They're _my_ books, Draco. _Obviously_ they're going to be Muggle books. The only wizarding books I have are textbooks and one fiction book Ginny gave me for a joke that I _don't_ think you'd be interested in."

Draco pulled out _Stranger in a Strange Land_ and examined it closely, eyes skimming over the blurb on the back. "What's this book that you think I wouldn't want to read? How do you know –" Hermione interrupted, "It's called _Dusk_, and it's about a powerful handsome wizard who falls in love with a clumsy, bland Muggle girl. The very concept would make you vomit. It _might_ be romantic, in a sort of stereotypical way, except there's no…" Hermione blushed, abruptly remembering that she was talking to _Draco_. He was smirking slightly and gesturing for her to continue. "No, um…juicy bits." She finished with her face burning, and ripped the second bag open, "Oh look, new board games!"

"You like the juicy bits, do you, Granger?" He didn't let it drop; pulled out another book, _Rule, Britannia_ and putting it aside after a brief glance, continued, "What a _surprise_. The studious bookworm, an avid reader of _romance_, with all the _juicy bits_." Hermione frowned and sat on the end of his bed, legs crossed, dragging the games she had brought him out of the bag, "Do you always have to be such an annoying _git_, Malfoy? I don't have to be down here, you know? I could be up with people I like, but instead I choose to be down here with _you_. Would it really be that difficult to appreciate that fact?" she snapped sharply without thinking, tiredness getting the best of her, and there was a long silence. She looked up, and saw Draco holding _The Earthsea Quartet_ – one of Hermione's favourite childhood books – very tightly in one hand and staring at her, somehow incorporating both anxiety and resentment into his expression. She swore inwardly and apologised, "I didn't mean…" His face closed off, but he simply said, "Of course you didn't."

There was a brief uncomfortable silence, Hermione filling it in by unpacking all of the Muggle board games she had gone off with an eager Mr Weasley to purchase. He had been full of excited babble about Muggle toys, and examined everything in the shop, and they had ended up buying twice as many games as Hermione had put down on the list. At _least_. She had brought down Scrabble, Ludo, Rummikub, The Game of Knowledge, and one Hermione thought Draco might actually enjoy; Risk. The other games had been usurped by Mr Weasley for now, who along with Ron, Fred, George and Tonks, were being taught Monopoly at this very moment by an _extremely_ patient Harry.

"What's this one like?" Draco held up a book and Hermione smiled to herself; it was _The Truth_ by Terry Pratchett. How fitting that he would choose that particular book. "It's a Muggle story about a magical world. Except…that's not really what it's about. It's…" Hermione couldn't think of how to describe it and do it justice, but she thought maybe it would do Draco some good to read it, so she just said, "I thought it was amazing," Draco idly turned it over and over in his hands. "I'll have a look I suppose, but somehow I doubt I'm going to find a _Muggle_ book _amazing_." He inflected the word _Muggle_ with an impressive amount of dismissive contempt, and Hermione flinched. She hated it when Draco said the word that way, which was more often than she thought he even realised. She wished he'd stop.

Hermione unfolded a bent corner on the cover of _The Lord of the Rings_and smoothed her thumb over the wrinkle it had made. She wished she hadn't brought him the bloody books now. She had only been trying to be nice. Project CHUM suddenly seemed like such a stupid, pointless idea, and a stupid pointless name, and she wondered why she had bothered with any of it. "Why do you do that, Draco?" she asked quietly and he drew in a short breath. "I'm sorry?" he tried hopefully to placate her, throwing out a meaningless apology, and Hermione shook her head, looking up at Draco, "That's not what I asked for. I don't want you apologies. I want to know why you always do that." She looked back down at the book, "I would have thought that after everything… That you didn't think that way anymore. You _told_ me you didn't. You told your mother so."

"I said that I didn't know _what _I believed, except that I didn't think Muggles and mudbl–" He cut himself off but it was too late.

"Mudblood! Just say the damned word, Draco – you obviously still believe it!" Hermione threw _Lord of the Rings_ down and scrambled off his bed, anger suddenly sweeping through her. That word, that _fucking_ word. She had heard it from his lips so many times before, but it had never stung the way it did now. Draco clenched his jaw, "I don't think Muggle-borns and Muggles deserve to be tortured and killed. I didn't say anything about _liking_ them," he finished coolly and his controlled demeanour just irritated Hermione even further.

"You don't get to _say_ Muggle-born and _think_ mudblood, Draco," she hissed at him. "It's one or the other. You can't just hide your bigotry behind polite facades and make pretend you're a good person just because you aren't killing people!" He looked at her with a stony face, "It's how I was raised, Granger. It's not a _choice_ I made. It's what I was taught to believe from the moment I was born. It was beaten into my head every minute of every bloody day. I think not wanting to kill Muggle-borns and Muggles is a good first step." He glared at her, "I'm working on the rest, I really am. But for fuck's sake, Granger, cut me some slack."

"Why the hell should I, _Malfoy_?"

"I told you, I'm _trying_. But I don't have to bloody like Muggle-borns and Muggles – it's not fucking illegal to dislike people!"

"Oh fuck you, Malfoy! You horrible, _ungrateful_…_horrible_ person!"

"What the _fuck_ is your problem, Granger?"

They were both yelling, and he was on his feet now, glaring down at her.

"_I'm_ a Muggle-born, you arrogant, thoughtless _wanker_, or hadn't you remembered that?" From the sudden startled look on his aristocratic features, no, he hadn't. He had actually bloody _forgotten_. Somewhere between the Manor and now, he had stopped seeing her as mudblood and started seeing her as a person. He had forgotten. _Well lucky him_. Hermione fumed, furious and hurt beyond all reason. She couldn't forget. Couldn't _ever_ forget. Her fingers began to scratch unconsciously at her left forearm, every muscle in her body starting to tremble like a wire drawn taut and plucked.

Draco worried at his lip, expression turned sincerely contrite now, "It's not the same with you anymore, Granger. You're…I don't dislike you. At all. It's not the same." The words were reluctantly said and Hermione knew they were true because of that – and because of the genuine remorse written on his face. But he was wrong. He was fucking _wrong_. "It _is_ the same. I'm a mudblood, the same as any other," she retorted fiercely, eyes tearing up, and Draco shook his head, "No you're not." There was puzzlement on his face as he stared at her, at the tears streaming down her anger-reddened cheeks. He didn't understand why she was so angry, so upset. He wasn't _ever_ going to understand. "I _am_!" Hermione shouted at him, tears warping her vision. She hated him right now. _Hated_ him.

Draco Malfoy might not be a Death Eater anymore, but that didn't mean he was a nice, thoughtful compassionate person. And that realisation; so obvious and yet she had somehow missed it – _stupid, how stupid of her _– made her stomach wrench.

Muggles and Muggle-borns were still a lesser class to him, and Hermione didn't give a fuck how he'd been raised, it _was_ a choice. It _was_. Or she would still despise him. Would never have given him a chance and felt sorry for him and been nice to him. But she had _chosen_ to give him a chance. But when it came down to it, Draco still thought he was better than Muggle-borns just because of his _blood_. Except, apparently Hermione wasn't lesser in his eyes anymore, because he thought she was _different_. But she wasn't different; he had just fooled himself into believing she was because she had been nice to him. Tears bathed her cheeks and her chest burnt.

Draco's hand touched her wrist gingerly and she jerked her arm away. He sighed, "Hermione. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't think words like mudblood. I know that." Draco's voice broke through her internal rant and she stared at him wide-eyed as he said, "It was just a bloody book, Hermione."

_Just a bloody book. Just a bloody book._

She unzipped her jersey in silence and shrugged it to the floor. "What are you…?" Hermione ignored Draco's unfinished query, fingers fumbling with the buttons on her shirt. "_Hermione_?" His hands tried to stay hers, to stop her from pulling her shirt open and she pushed them away. "Hermione, for Merlin's sake, what the _hell_ are you doing?"

"Shut _up_, Malfoy." Hermione ground out and backed out of his reach, tearing quick and frantic at her shirt. Draco didn't follow her and try to stop her from stripping off her top again, but he did glue his eyes to the ground at his feet. Stupid fucking boy. What did he think she was doing? "Look at me." She was in jeans and a white cotton bra like the one she had worn that day at the Manor, and she wanted to cross her arms over her chest but she didn't. "Put your damn clothes back on, Hermione. I don't know what the _fuck_ kind of game you're playing, but I'm not having it," he sounded like he thought she had gone mad, and Hermione supposed she couldn't blame him.

"I'm not playing any _game_, Draco." The anger ran out of Hermione's voice and it cracked as she spoke. "Please, just look at me." Draco lifted his head reluctantly and swept his hair back off his face, his guarded stare fixing on her in the soft light. She watched as his grey eyes widened and a strange, sharp hurt blossomed to life in them. "This is what I am, Draco." Hermione's eyes met his unflinchingly, "This is what I see every morning and every night. So don't tell me I'm not a mudblood." She took a few steps towards him, and he stood silent and still, his gaze dropping to her chest, her stomach. The words scrawled there by his Aunt Bellatrix's cursed blade. She saw him gulp. Hermione stepped closer and stretched out her arm to him so he could see the word scrawled on it, wanting to hurt him. "Read them."

Draco shook his head.

"Read them!"

"No!"

"Fine, I'll do it." Hermione glared defiantly at him, pointing to each one as she said it aloud, not even having to look to find each slur, knowing their precise locations by heart. "Mudblood. Whore. Slut. Mudblood. _Mudblood_." Hermione's jaw felt like it was ratcheting tighter and tighter and Draco flinched like she had struck him with each word that she ground out. She stared at him, eyes hard, "If Muggle-borns are just dirty _mudbloods_, then I'm a mudblood." She paused. Took his hand and Draco didn't resist; he let Hermione place it flat over the word _mudblood_ that marred her chest. His hand spread warm over her scarred skin just above the swells of her breasts, and she held his hand pressed firm to her skin, sending warmth radiating through her. Hermione leaned forward. "There aren't any exceptions, Draco," she whispered harsh and broken in his ear. "So what does that make _me_?"

"You aren't a mudblood," Draco said it without pause, and then added, "No exceptions." Tears sprang back into Hermione's eyes and she bit her lip, trying to stifle the sobs she knew were coming. She felt like she was splitting in two, and her exhausted mind couldn't contain her emotions. Draco's hand was still flat on her chest, but when she started crying in earnest, he moved it. Both his arms encircled her, and with vague shock she felt his lips press warm and soft on her forehead as he drew her close. "Shush. It's okay, Granger. Hermione. Hermione. It's okay." His voice was gentle.

"No it's _not_." She sobbed, "Nothing's okay." The war, the scars that traced Hermione's skin, Harry's tired eyes, Ron's hard ruthlessness – Draco's hand. None of that was okay. It was all horrible and wrong and Hermione just wanted it to be over. But it never would be, because every single fucking day of the rest of her life, she would wake up and see _mudblood_ carved into her flesh.

Hermione's hands scrabbled and grabbed fistfuls of Draco's shirtfront, her face ended up buried into his chest, and he held her tightly and shushed her as she cried. Rubbed her back firm and soothing. Pressed his lips on top of her head – not quite a kiss, just pressure, his breath hot on her scalp. She didn't care that he was Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater and obnoxious arsehole. He was here. They stood there clinging to each other for Merlin knew how long, until Hermione's sobs finally began ebb away. She could hear what Draco was murmuring now that she wasn't sobbing and sniffling noisily, and she just listened for a moment, her cheek and ear squashed against the thin fabric of the long-sleeved Muggle tee shirt she had bought him just a few days ago. Dark grey, of course. His chest reverberated under Hermione's ear and she sighed softly, his low words out of step with the steady lub-dub of his heart.

"You're not a mudblood, Hermione. You're the finest bloody witch our age that I know, and I've always thought so, much as it used to pain me to admit it even to myself. You're determined and talented and clever, and fucking annoying as hell. And to be brutally honest with myself, if you weren't here now I don't know what I'd do. Commit ritual suicide, maybe." He laughed, short and choked, "Merlin. I'm sorry. For all of it. You're not a mudblood. I'm so sorry, Hermione."

It was surreal, listening to Draco speak to her so softly, so casually kindly, in that familiar voice which not so very long ago would have only held sneering contempt for her. It was like Hermione was in a dream, and the whole world had been upended. Her mind skittered.

She didn't dislike him at all.

Hermione twisted her face away from his warm, hard chest and pushed it up, and her mouth landed clumsily, hard, against his. Draco's hand froze on her back. His lips were soft and warm and dry – and motionless with shock on hers. And then he groaned and spoke a muffled _fuck_ against her lips and kissed her. It was just what Hermione had always imagined he would kiss like – not that she had imagined…well, maybe once or twice a long time ago – and then she stopped thinking coherently, and Draco's lips were insistent and his mouth so hot and wet, and his tongue flicked teasingly at hers and made her moan and quiver. He kissed like ice so cold that it burnt and when you touched it with your tongue you couldn't pull away without your skin tearing. Hermione never wanted to stop kissing him – she _couldn't_.

He kissed like he wanted to crawl inside her skin, not satisfied with fleeting touches but wanting to clash together until they both bled from the pleasure of it. She wanted that oh god she _wanted_ it. Draco kissed with skill and intent and he sucked on her bottom lip and her clit throbbed and her pelvis rocked out against his thigh and her nipples begged to be touched – squeezed and pinched and stroked ever so lightly. Hermione latched onto the tip of his tongue in mimicry of sucking his cock, and his fingers spasmed and dug into the soft skin between her shoulder blades and pinioned her against him. Draco moaned, low and quiet, and the desperate hunger in the sound made Hermione's knees go weak and she leaned against him, his thin, hard body steadying her, his erection pressing into her lower belly through their clothes.

Draco wrenched his mouth away from hers, and his mouth, wet and starving, kissed a sucking trail along her jaw, down her neck. Hermione's head fell back and she whimpered, body aching for him, her want seeping from every pore, swimming in her head. And then Draco's lips landed on the word Bellatrix had etched into Hermione's chest, and a shock of _wrong_ and _no, not there_ dragged her out of that delicious, mindless daze, and Hermione came back to herself jarringly. She was wrapped in Draco Malfoy's embrace, her shirt on the floor and his arms possessive, one hand splayed greedy on the naked skin of her back, his mouth kissing her scars like his soft lips and wet hot tongue could heal them. Hermione's world staggered and lurched.

Hermione released her grip on Draco's shirt, pushed against him hard. For a second his arms tightened around her and he pressed another intent kiss on her scarred flesh, and then he let her go with a small, abject sigh of loss.

Hermione stumbled back searching the floor frantically for her shirt, and upon seeing it snatched it up and began hurriedly dragging it back on. She couldn't look up at him, her face red as a lobster and tear streaked, hair straggling down from its neat bun, lips tender from their frantic snogging. She knew she looked dreadful. And her treacherous brain was asking her slyly, over and over again, _what was __that__, Hermione? What __was__ that? _There was a thrill in Hermione's stomach and her breath was coming short and shallow. Her nipples tingled inside her cotton bra and her lips felt dry. She had wanted him so badly. In fact, she still did, right this very moment. It was a feeling that repulsed and terrified her even as it set off hard, throbbing shocks between her legs.

"Hermione…" She looked up at Draco. He was staring at her with parted lips and a look of faint surprise on his face; pale and pointed, with that full mouth that was parted with desire and those eyes that shifted from stone to silver depending on his mood, and right now they were _quicksilver_ and she could have lost herself in them. "I didn't mean…" Hermione gasped through lips that felt numb and she knew her eyes were round and stunned. "What?" he asked dazedly. "I didn't… I…" She backed up a step and nearly tripped over her discarded and forgotten jersey as it tangled in her heels. "What?" he asked dazedly again sounding like a broken record, and Hermione would have laughed if her brain hadn't already imploded. Draco's fingers went to his lips and touched them lightly, and then he drew them away, stared at them puzzled and then back up at her, "What _was_ th–" he started to ask, and Hermione gasped, "Nothing. _Nothing_," as she panicked and turned and ran. Up the stairs drawing her wand and slurring a frantic _alohamora_ through Draco-kissed lips, scrambling out into the bright light of the dining room and turning and _shoving_ the trapdoor closed with a bang behind her.

Hermione froze, a gasping, tousled mess, shirt half-unbuttoned and eyes wild, and looked around the room. A breath whooshed out of her as with excruciating relief she saw the room was empty. There was no one to see her like this. "Oh god," she touched her mouth just as Draco had touched his, and murmured again, "Oh _god_." Hermione's breath felt stuck in her chest and her clit ached with lingering pulses of desire, and she felt like throwing up, mind swirling and blanked with panicked shock. What the bloody hell had she just _done_? _Nothing_. She told herself as she buttoned her shirt properly with clumsy, fumbling fingers and smoothed and retied her hair. _Nothing_. She told herself as she made herself walk – walk, not run – slowly upstairs to her room. _Nothing_. She repeated as she stripped off all but her knickers and curled up in bed under the blankets, shutting her eyes but unable to shut out the memory.

It didn't mean anything. It had been a mistake. Hermione had been an emotional wreck, not thinking clearly. She hadn't meant it. Draco had just reacted, like any teenager would. It didn't mean anything. _Nothing_. Hermione rolled into a tight ball under her blankets, and tried to pretend it hadn't happened.

# # #

Draco stared at the empty stairs, echoing soundlessly with the frantic, panicked thud of Hermione's steps. Stared long after the trapdoor had boomed shut in the wake of her desperate flight. He stood and stared but didn't see, because his mind was picturing again what had happened, and his lips were burning hot with the memory of her skin. Her jersey lay on the floor in a crumpled pile and he picked it up, soft wool in his hand. He didn't know what to think. He knew what he felt, but her didn't know if he should be feeling it. Draco sat down weakly on the edge of his bed and folded the jersey neatly, just to give his hand something to do. It wanted to plunge into Hermione Granger's long, dark, wild hair and tangle and pull; he wanted to grasp the naked swell of her hip, cup the heavy weight of her breasts, trace the jut of her jaw and the shape of her lips. Her jersey was soft and the warmth of her body still lingered on it.

He hadn't expected that. Draco would _never_ have expected that. But oh, Merlin, he had fucking enjoyed it. Kissing Hermione Granger. A shocked smile curved his mouth and he shook his head in slow disbelief. Once upon a time the thought of kissing her would have disgusted him – know-it-all, mudblood, Granger. With buckteeth and a butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her-mouth prim and proper attitude. Things had changed. Draco smoothed his hand over the jersey in his lap. Did he care that she was a Muggle-born anymore? He had left the Dark Lord, defected; that part of his life was gone now, so… _In for a knut in for a galleon _– he thought, eyes glazed on the wheat-gold of her jersey, remembering the taste of her.

Draco admitted silently to himself that kissing Hermione had been like the rich, throaty burn of well-aged firewhiskey, or the feel of Sylph-woven silk sheets on his cheek. He had no fucking clue what to do with that realisation though. Hermione Granger. She had kissed him, so frantic and urgent and he had wondered for just a second if she had gone mad, if she was to upset to be in her right mind, but then there were her lips pressing against his warm and pleading and he hadn't cared. He had thrown caution to the bloody winds and done exactly what a tiny part of him that he had tried to ignore had wanted to do for days now; kissed Hermione Granger.

Maybe it was just that she was the only person around. Maybe it was because she was nice to him when everyone else despised him. She spent time with him so that he wouldn't be alone. But Draco thought it might be more than that. Her intelligence, her kindness, her pretty brown eyes, and undeniably fit body; the way she put up with him when he was being a miserable, snarky prat. Her fucking annoying mannerisms, her _incessant_ cheerfulness when he was feeling miserable, the unwanted compassion in those warm brown eyes, her damned _virtuousness_; Draco liked all of it. Even the bloody annoying bits. _Fuck._ He wasn't sure what that meant, except that kissing her had made him forget everything else, everything bad and awful and terrible that had happened was gone; it had been only _her_ and wanting to pleasure her, wanting to be inside her, wanting to devour her.

Hermione had pushed him away in the end, Draco thought with his thumb rubbing idly over the knitted fabric of her jersey. She had said, _nothing_, eyes wild and terrified and frantic, and run away. She had probably only kissed him because she hadn't been thinking straight, too upset to realise what she was doing and just desperate for the distracting heat of mouths interlocked and spiking lust. Maybe the long hours down in the cellar were just making Draco crazy, sending him round the twist, and he only wanted Granger because she was basically the only person he ever saw.

He didn't care.

Draco resisted the urge to bury his nose in Hermione's jersey and breathe in her scent. Instead he went to bed and lay there silently, playing the kiss over and over in his head, and resisting the urge to jerk off lest Hermione somehow see that he had in his eyes the next time he saw her, and murder him for it. He resisted right up until what felt like the wee hours of the morning, when, still sleepless, Draco sighed and swore and scrambled out of bed to where her jersey lay on the small table and breathed in her scent. Smooth and sweet, with rich, woody undertones, and he flushed and gave in and buried his face fully into the tickly wool and breathed in deep again and again. And then slid back into his small, empty bed with her scent lingering in his nostrils and the memory of her mouth greedy on his, her skin smooth under his hand, the swell of her breasts inside her cotton bra. His hand stole under the covers with a groan of defeat.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ So, what do you think? Good kissing? Kissing is good? *hopeful face* I wasn't meaning to put any of the arguing and sexy times in this chapter - it was just meant to be that first short part where Hermione and Draco are actually being friendly and mostly relaxed around each other, to show their developing relationship, but then _this_ happened.

I wondered at first if getting so angry was a little out of character for Hermione, but then I thought – she's tired, she's stressed, she's going out of her way to be nice to Draco, and now she thinks he still considers her to be 'just a mudblood'. And Hermione has been known to lose her temper and get rather furious, in the books/movies. So I thought it would work; plus, showing Draco her scars is her trying to make a point, a point that affects her deeply. And it paved the way for their brief encounter, her being shirtless and furious, so I thought, what the hell, why not.

Afterward, she's freaked out. She's gradually been warming up to Draco since he first arrived and she started feeling sorry for him, but this is a whole 'nother kettle of fish, and she doesn't know how to handle it. So she tried to just pretend it didn't happen so that she doesn't have to try to work through what being attracted to him means, and what to do about it.

Draco is less conflicted than Hermione. He has a lot less to lose by being attracted to her now, although he wonders if it is because of Stockholm Syndrome (not that he knows it by that name, of course), or really genuine. But the attraction and the kissing, although shocking and such, isn't really a dilemma for him at this point in his situation.

So, does it work? Was it hot? Did you like it?

Please _review _and tell me, I having this burning need to know what you think :)


	11. The Middle of the Night

_[Edit: This chapter has been edited, to _hopefully_ catch all the present/past tense muddle-ups. 08/04/13]_

_Author's Note: _Thank you to all you lovely readers and reviewers! *blows kisses*

This (lovely and long) chapter, Hermione discovers the realities of war, with all the blood, sweat, tears, heroism, despair, and anger that _war_ encompasses, and she discovers that maybe things don't always have to be _quite_ as awkward as she thought, if she just thinks about things less.

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**The Middle of the Night**_

There'll be no value in the strength

Of walls that I have grown

There'll be no comfort in the shade

Of the shadows thrown

You may not trust the promises

Of the change I'll show

But I'd be yours if you'd be mine.

[Lover of the Light, Mumford and Sons]

# # #

Hermione went to Lupin the next morning, and asked to be put on active rotation. She didn't go to Harry; she knew he'd say no without even considering her request. He still wanted to protect her after what had happened at the Manor. God, that seemed so long ago now. The panic attacks had stopped, the dreams only came every few nights and altogether the memories had lost their most of their power over her. Remus would be reluctant, but out of all of the Order members in charge of the active duty rosters, Hermione thought he would be the most likely to say yes to her.

She had to get out of the damned house, away from Draco. She needed to clear her head, to breathe him out of her lungs and get her bearings back. Hermione was all fogged up, and she no longer knew which way was up. Or any direction at all. Maybe…maybe some time out of that dark cellar with only Malfoy's company would sort her out. Expunge the twinging thrill in her stomach that even the faintest thought of him gave her now, since the kiss.

_The Kiss._ All night Hermione had thought about it, to the point where in her own head it was capitalised and italicised. _The Kiss_. She couldn't keep thinking about it, and the best plan she could come up with to forget about it, forget about Draco, about everything…was to get back into the fight. She had spent far too long hiding away in the Order's headquarters, doing paperwork and research, playing at medi-witch assistant, and now, Draco, her own personal Project. No, no more. It was time for Hermione Jean Granger to actually contribute something solid to this war.

She went to Lupin and pled her case, but he, damn him, called Harry in on the decision. And so it was that Hermione stood in the dining room with Draco somewhere beneath her feet, trying to focus on what was happening around her instead of on _him_.

"She's not a fighter." Hermione must have made a noise of protest, because Harry turned and looked at her, "You aren't, 'Mione. You know that." She shook her head, angry, all the more so because of the thoughts of Draco that trickled in inexorably; frightening, confusing, _wrong_ thoughts. What would Harry say if he knew what she had done? She looked at Ron, sitting at the table even though he hadn't been invited to the meeting. Hermione knew what he would say, and she never wanted to hear those words coming from him. Never wanted to see the crumpled, betrayed look on his face that she _would_ see if he knew she had kissed Draco Malfoy. The fucking ferret. The coward. The ex-Death Eater scum.

She raised her voice at Harry, "I know just as many offensive spells as you! You know that!" Harry shook his head and Remus mirrored Harry's action, "That's not the same thing, Hermione. Harry's right." Hermione set her jaw stubbornly, "There are people out there fighting who don't even know half the hexes and curses and charms I know, _and_ who have less experience than me!"

"Hermione…" Harry's eyes were dulled by the constant tiredness he carried around with him these days, like his bones were sheathed in lead and every move was an effort. But he pleaded with her, and Hermione felt a twinge of guilt for making him feel bad. She resolutely ignored it. "No. No, I can fight. I can be _useful_. I – I've hidden away here too long." Remus' scarred face was gentle, "For a reason, Hermione. What if you freeze up in the field?"

"I won't." She crossed her arms over her chest and said again, "I won't. I haven't had a – a _moment_ in days now. And I won't." Remus and Harry looked at each other for a long moment, and Hermione wanted to grab them both by the hair and knock their heads together. She wasn't a child. They couldn't bloody stop her, they _couldn't_.

"I say let her do it." Hermione went still with shock as Ron spoke up. She swivelled her head to gawk at him. Out of the three men, she would have thought he would be the most vehemently against her getting out into the firing line.

Harry was staring too, mouth agape and a look of betrayal on his face as Ron calmly undermined Harry's position. "What? Ron!" Harry protested and Ron shrugged. Feet up on the dining room table – if his mother saw she'd kill him – and a glass of Muggle beer in hand, Ron looked hard and lean and grown up. A man. A battle-proven wizard, not at all the gangling youth he had been not much more than a few short – no, _long_, so long – months ago. Hermione stared at him. At his brightest blue eyes that were so keen and sharp he cut the air with them as he stared Harry down. "I've got that raid coming up. I need all the people I can get."

Harry shook his head and Hermione stared at him, "No. No, not that. That's too risky. If – _if_ – Hermione were going to go into active duty, she wouldn't be starting with that. It's too risky." Ron didn't flinch away from Harry's stare, and there was a dynamic between them that hadn't been there a week ago – the last time Hermione had attended a meeting of the central Order members.

"Exactly. It's a risky mission, and the more people I can get, the better the odds are in our favour. The less likely our people will get hurt, or, Merlin forbid, killed."

Hermione blinked. Suddenly it all seemed very real, and huge and very frightening. But she wasn't going to back down - no, just the opposite in fact. "I can do it, Harry. Remus. Please. I want to contribute. I feel like I've been dead weight for months, and if Ron could use me…" Remus and Harry shared another long glance, and Hermione smiled quick and grateful at Ron. He grinned back, and there was a flash of the old, mischievous Ron behind those hard blue eyes and almost gaunt cheeks. Hermione's spine straightened, glaring at a hesitant Harry, "I can do it, Harry. You can't protect me just because I'm your friend."

Harry's teeth gritted, "Almost everyone here is my friend to some extent, and I send them out anyway, and sometimes…they don't come back in one piece. Or at all." Hermione shrank slightly, chastised by Harry's words and harsh tone, and Remus laid a hand on Harry's shoulder. "We could send her out tomorrow night as a trial run. With Jordan, Wood and Chang. It's nothing major. Just reconnaissance." Harry frowned but thought about it, and Hermione's heart thudded quick and hopeful, hands clenched by her sides as she waited for Harry's answer.

"Fine. A trial run. And if she can't cope – if you freeze up, Hermione, or can't handle it out there, there's no shame in that. You don't have to be fighting to be useful. You do enough here." Harry said and Hermione couldn't help calling him out on his last words, "What, Harry, what exactly do I do that's so indispensable?" Harry rubbed his hand over his spiky hair, "God, Hermione. I don't know. You do loads. You help Mrs Weasley keep the house running, you decipher interrupted Death Eater communiqués, and help out with organising Order member rosters, and assist Tricia, and…"

Okay, so Hermione did do a fair bit, despite the feeling she had lately that she spent most of her time with Draco. It was true that from the time she got up in the morning at dawn, until the time she went to bed at around midnight, Hermione was busy with one thing or another. And lately of course, the spare hours that had once been spent in completely uninterrupted relaxation had been spent in the cellar with Draco; which was more like another kind of work than relaxation at times.

"I don't care, Harry. I'm going. Not just the trial, all of it. Ron's mission, and every one after that where I could be useful. I can do this. I need to do this." And Harry must have heard the desperation in her voice, because although he looked like the decision pained him, he nodded, "All right. I'll put you on Ron's team list for the upcoming mission." Ron spoke up again, "But only if you prove you can handle yourself tomorrow, and for the next two weeks, 'Mione. I'm not taking you out to get yourself or anyone else killed. I need to know you'll be okay out there." There was an undercurrent of the same protectiveness that Harry openly blazed with in Ron's voice, and Hermione felt warm hearing it.

She nodded immediately; that was a reasonable demand. "Of course, Ron. I understand." But she knew she could do it, and she knew she would be part of the raid – Hermione Granger didn't fail at the things she set her mind to. A fierce blend of terror and excitement boiled in her bones. She looked around at the three men, a small, determined smile on her face as she thought about being part of the team, proving herself, being an asset.

And for a while at least, she forgot about Draco.

# # #

"Walk quietly!" Cho Chang hissed at Hermione and she went red, not that anyone could see her blush in the dark, and tried to pick her steps more lightly. The four of them were creeping around the boundaries of a Death Eater property, where the Order believed a group of blood traitor families were being held alive. Hermione herself had deciphered the communiqué they had interrupted, and it was interesting to see what happened after the information had been decoded.

If this reconnaissance confirmed that there was indeed Death Eater activity in the house and families held here, then the Order was going to raid it. But they needed confirmation, and details that only investigating the place firsthand could give them. They weren't going to go blasting in if the information turned out to have been wrong and they went in with wands firing at Muggles, or if it was a trap.

So Hermione, Lee Jordan, Oliver Wood and Cho Chang were creeping very quietly around the house. Lee, Cho and Hermione had the task of gathering as much information as they could by taking photos, testing the various wards that might be up so that they could bring them down quickly during the raid, and backing up Wood in case they were discovered. Wood was by himself, and had an invisibility potion so he could get in close – if the place didn't have alarm wards, which wasn't likely.

Hermione felt clumsy, bumbling, useless and vaguely terrified. Her stomach felt tight and sick as a light went on in the house, and she saw a small figure open the door and come outside, a light quivering at the end of their wand. "Freeze, Hermione." Cho hissed barely audibly and snatched at Hermione's arm and she froze in the crouched position that made her thighs and calves ache and burn, too terrified even to breathe.

The figure went back inside the house after a few minutes and Hermione nearly collapsed as the tension ran out of her. "Hush," Cho snapped again in Hermione's ear, hot breath tickling her skin. "You don't relax until the mission is over and we're back at Headquarters." Hermione straightened and focused her mind, nodded shortly. Her wand was tight in her sweat-slippery hand and her pulse was tapping quickly with adrenaline as she followed Cho and Lee around the perimeter of the large old house.

"Definitely wizards. The guard had a wand," Lee hissed to Cho and the witch nodded, "I think we've got the right place. Hermione, are you taking pictures?" Hermione mumbled a 'yes' through numbed lips as she zoomed in and took photos of the house, the silhouettes showing through the curtains, and the layout of the surrounding grounds.

This was nothing like how Hermione thought it would be. Her sneakers were muddy, her fingers going numb with cold, her legs aching from crouching; and the other three seemed completely at home in this environment. They walked careful and silent, whispered in short threads of conversation and always understood each other, held their wands like they were ready and willing to do battle at any second.

It had always been Hermione Granger who had been the best at everything, and now she felt like she was stumbling in the dark. Which she quite literally was, foot crunching on a twig and Cho's voice came again, "Hermione, for Merlin's sake, _be quiet._" She whispered an apology and tried desperately to be quieter, but it seems like she's stepping on every twig the others avoid. She felt cold and frightened and was doing nothing but taking photos, and it seemed so pointless, so blasé in a way.

It was _nothing_ like how Hermione thought it would be.

But then they got back to Headquarters unharmed, with the photos and a detailed list of the wards that were around the house, and information on how many people they had seen through the windows, and whether there were guards outside, and how alert they seemed at night – the questions ran on and on. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Lupin, Harry, and Ron were at the debriefing; Kingsley and Lupin being the two senior Order members in Godric's Hollow.

Hermione sat quiet as a mouse and tried to look unnoticeable, ashamed of how badly she had managed out in the field, stumbling all over the place and not knowing what on earth to do half the time. She was sure she was going to be told she wasn't up for fieldwork, and be trapped back at the house again. And then Oliver Wood said, "Hermione did all right, didn't she, Cho, Lee?" They both nodded agreement and Cho smiled at Hermione and Wood continued, "I think she'll do fine. Just needs a bit of practice is all." And Hermione grinned and flushed with pleased and nervous pride.

# # #

_**Three Weeks Later**_

Lights flashed through the air like Muggle laser lights at a rave and Hermione tripped on a clump of grass and fell on her face, wand skittering from her hand. "Oh shit, shit, _shit_!" she chanted frantically and scrambled forward still flat on her face in the muddy churned up grass, hand fumbling in the dark and flashing lights for the slim stick of wood that was the only thing standing between her and certain death.

"_Diffindo!_" The word came clearly to her ears from the low, distorted voice of a Death Eater and Hermione tried to twist and roll to avoid the spell. It didn't miss her but her panicked attempt had saved her life as the curse just clipped her thigh. She wailed like a wounded animal as pain from the wound roared into fiery, consuming life. She couldn't give into it, couldn't let it… Hermione scrambled and wriggled and her fingers scrabbled at the grass and she heard the Death Eater laughing and without looking up, knew the scum was laughing at her pitiful efforts to escape.

Escape. Hah. _Oh thank Merlin, yes! _Her fingers closed over the smooth stick of her wand as a blue flash of light struck the turf just inches away from her fingers and dirt and grass exploded into the air. "_Stupefy_!" Hermione screamed through hoarse dry lips as she scrambled back onto her arse in the mud, and aimed wildly in the direction the curse had come from. Her heart pounded in her ears and her breath came in choking heaves. _She didn't want to die_.

There was a dull thud that she barely heard through the yells and screams and ear splitting _cracks_ of spells shooting from wands. Hermione pushed herself up to her feet with trembling hands and ignoring the conflagration of pain in her thigh, made a wobbly-kneed limping dash towards the place the _thud_ had come from. The masked Death Eater that had nearly killed her lay insensible on the grass. Hermione cast _incarcerous_ on the _stupefied_ Death Eater and sent up a shower of silver sparks; the Order's signal that a Death Eater had been disabled. The retrieval crew would see the sparks and apparate in from the nearby hillside to grab the Death Eater and deliver him to a holding cell.

In the meantime – Hermione ducked as an orange flare shot through the air past her shoulder and crouching low, scrambled back into the thick of battle. In the meantime, she had to stay alive.

The battlefield was chaos, but after the generous handful of battles she had fought in over the past two weeks, Hermione was…not _used_ to it, she didn't think she would ever get used to the _screams_ and the _fear_ and the lurking shadow of _death_ ready to snatch whomever he could. No, she wasn't _used_ to it, but she no longer panicked the way she had on the first mission that had turned into a pitched fight.

Only about twenty or so people on each side, but the spells flew thick and fast in the air of the clearing and Hermione shot stunning and binding spells randomly at hooded figures as she staggered back toward Ron. She was limping and pitching like a drunken sailor, and every step sent waves of excruciating pain up her leg and into her back. But she kept going. And then she saw him. Ron was fighting like a man possessed, _reductos_, _incendios_, _expulsos_ and _diffindos_ roaring out of him, and two Death Eaters fell badly injured or dead in the face of his fury.

Hermione's sneakers slipped in the mud as her leg gave way under her, and she fell hard on her arse, jarring her spine, the breath whooshing out of her. She tried to get up but she felt so bloody dizzy, vision blurring. She looked down, and whimpered as she saw her left jeans leg was wet from hip to calf with her blood, black in the moonlight.

"Ron!" she screamed and cast _petrificus totalus_ at a Death Eater who marched toward her with wand raised and _Avada Kedavra_ on his lips. The Death Eater got the first syllable out before he fell, stiff as a board, and Hermione heard breathy screams of terror coming from her mouth. That had been so close. Too bloody close.

Hermione touched her wand to the gash in her leg and gabbled a healing spell, but the wound was too deep and a basic healing spell wasn't doing the job. She felt so _dizzy_. "'Mione, _shield_!" Ron yelled and she looked up and cast "_Protego!_" without thinking about it, just doing what he told her to like a good soldier. A hex hit her shield a split second later, and then Ron was running toward her as a tall Death Eater approached with his wand pointed at her from across the clearing.

Hermione blinked; the effort it took to hold the _protego_ was draining her, and another spell hit it and it fluttered and failed and she gasped, "_Protego…_" again. She wanted to faint, her eyes going dark and spotty. "Hermione!" Ron's face as he raced toward her and the Death Eater stalking closer was fury and hate, lit a rainbow of beautiful colours by the curses splitting the air. "Ron," she murmured and fell flat on her back in the mud, world spinning around her as her head cracked on a flat rock buried in the grass. Her _protego_ sputtered and died.

Through dazed ears Hermione could hear Ron screaming hexes and jinxes and curses, and twisted her neck so that she could see him, even flat on her back. Her head felt like it was a block of lead, heavy and dull, and her view of the world was a strange sideways one. Ron was _sprinting_, boots pounding the grass, and flashes of colour burst from his wand but the Death Eater was blocking and dodging, still picking his way so fucking _arrogantly _toward Hermione. Then the Death Eater stopped walking and his wand was pointing right at Hermione. She thought maybe she was going to die. The Death Eater began to speak,

"_Avada k–_"

And then a ferocious snarling curse ripped from Ron's throat and Hermione blinked and saw a yellowish flash hit the Death Eater before he could finish speaking the killing curse. The Death Eater doubled over, clutched his abdomen and groaned. A second later his guts exploded through his desperately grabbing hands and splattered the area for a metre around him, and he toppled. A wave of nausea seized Hermione, and she rolled her head to one side so she didn't choke on her own vomit and threw up weakly down her own cheek and all over the ground.

"_Hermione!_" Ron skidded to his knees by her side and _slammed_ one hand over the wound on her thigh to try to stop the dark blood from spilling out, and the pain oh god the _pain_ was awful and Hermione shuddered and flipped under his firm grip, screamed and bit down on her tongue. The last thing she saw before her eyes rolled back into her head and she passed into blissful oblivion was a shower of green signal sparks coming from Ron's shaking wand. _Medical Emergency_.

# # #

"Anyway, I'm right as rain now. A few spells and Tricia had me back on my feet in a few hours. A bit stiff, maybe, but I'll be back to normal in a day or two." Hermione slid a glass of Muggle bourbon and coke over to Neville, who lifted it up and sniffed it cautiously. He tried it, smacked his lips together, smiled at the taste – took another sip. "It's like nothing else, is it?" He said and Hermione nodded, sipping at her own drink. "It's fucking terrifying. But, you know, I feel so _alive_ right now. More alive than I've ever felt." Neville nodded, "I know what you mean." He looked older, with dark hollows around his eyes and a haggard look to his face. They all looked that way, these days, to one extent or another.

Hermione hadn't truly known the reality of this war until she had gone out to fight in it. The torture at the Manor and all that had gone before was _nothing_ in comparison to this exhausting, soul-sucking business of all out war. She just felt ashamed she had hidden away in Godric's Hollow for so long, and let others fight her battles while she nursed her trauma over what had happened at the Manor. It was still a dark jagged wound on her soul, but when she was out in the thick of a fight, that wound was meaningless, unimportant compared to the frantic fight to stay alive. She licked her lips and drank some more; she understood now why Ron's teasing and grins came easier after a few drinks. The alcohol helped relax her, take the edge of her constant tension, helped dull the horror.

"So, are you glad to be out?" Hermione managed a smile at Neville as she shifted her heel on the chair her achy leg was propped up on. Neville had spent the last two months stationed in the Room of Requirement, and just today he had swapped out with Angelina Johnson. He nodded and then added, "I like the place, don't get me wrong. It…it understands me. I get it – how to use it to the best of its ability. But…" His eyes lowered to the gold paisley tablecloth and his finger traced the patterns there, nail bed ingrained with dirt, "The school. Hogwarts. It's hell now for any students who aren't in Slytherin. And there are so many Death Eaters and senior Slytherin students patrolling that we can't get the others out." There was stark horror on Neville's face and Hermione's throat choked up, and it was hard to swallow her next mouthful of bourbon and coke.

"We try to do what we can. And we've gotten a handful of students out over the past few weeks," He looked bleakly up at Hermione, "But a _handful_. Hermione, there are dozens and dozens still trapped there. It's not enough." His eyes filled up with tears and Hermione looked down at her drink, dunked her index finger in and swirled the dark liquid, giving him an _illusion_ of privacy at least. "We can hear them scream, sometimes, during the Carrows punishments. And other times too." Neville's voice was shaking and vague and nearly unrecognisable as his own, and Hermione flinched, fingers tightening around her glass. "Neville… You do what you can," was all the sympathy she could offer him. She knew it was limp and weak, and not enough to stop Neville from feeling like a failure, but it was all she had. The last few weeks had taken a heavy toll on her, and she didn't have the energy left in her to be a shoulder to cry on. She sipped her drink and looked at her toes in their stripy socks on the chair. Part of Hermione welcomed the bone-deep tiredness, and the fear, the pain when she has gotten injured during the handful of battles she has been in. It all meant she was _doing something_.

# # #

Weeks went by without Hermione coming down to the cellar, and Draco felt half-mad from loneliness and nearly ready to claw at the walls to get out. He was going crazy – when the hell was the Order going to decide to let him out? Was he to just stay trapped down here the duration of the bloody war, however long that might be? His food was left for him by random people; the Weaselette, Potter, Creevy, Loony Lovegood, Mrs Weasley… The last two were the only ones who said anything to him, bringing his food down and leaving it on the table for him and exchanging nothing much more than hellos and goodbyes.

Draco missed Hermione. He knew why she wasn't coming down here anymore – he wasn't stupid. But he missed her, and _not_ just because she kept him company, but also because he missed _her_, a fact that became easier to admit as the days ticked by. He was still fucking furious at her for just buggering off and abandoning him to insanity, though. As soon as he got out of here, he was going to track her down and lock _her_ up alone for weeks on end. See how she liked it. And then when she had begged enough to be let out, Draco would join her and they could…

It had only been a bloody kiss. It hadn't been the end of the world, no matter how unexpected or unwanted or brilliant it had been. It sure as hell didn't mean Hermione was allowed to just up and _vanish_ on him. In the middle of the night he hated her. But perhaps Draco missed her company just_ marginally_ more than he hated her for running away on him.

He read _The Truth_ and chuckled at some bits and set his mouth in a hard thin line at others, and sometimes he threw it down angrily and thought for a long time about why Hermione had wanted him to read it. And once it was finished Draco moved on to other books, and in reading them he thought perhaps he got to peek inside Hermione's head. There were old-fashioned romances, and Muggle ideas of what magic would be like, very British murder mysteries, the odd book about space and the future. There wasn't much to do but read, and so read he did.

But reading – and fantasising about alternately murdering or ravishing Hermione – couldn't fill in all the hours; it couldn't relieve the dull loneliness of every second of every hour being spent alone, without another person in the world to speak to. By his second week without Hermione's daily visits, Draco thought he would be overjoyed if Ronald fucking Weasley graced Draco with his presence for a game or ten of exploding snap, or even that awful, dreary Muggle game, Rummikub, that Hermione loved so much.

Merlin, when had he become so fucking _pathetic_?

# # #

Hermione hadn't thought about Draco Malfoy much at all in the past two weeks. There were occasional fleeting thoughts, but those were pushed away by thoughts of missions, past or upcoming, or were obliterated by exhausted sleep. Much as she couldn't be Neville's shoulder to cry on, Hermione didn't have the energy to dwell on thoughts of Draco. It was all too muddled and frightening and somehow the war was less scary, and she didn't want to even _begin _contemplating why _war_ was less frightening than the way it had felt when she had kissed Draco Malfoy.

So Hermione was shaken when she woke panting in the middle of the night with the dream-memory of his lips and teeth latched gently around one of her nipples, his tongue swirling wet and warm, and her hands fisted tight in his white-blonde hair. Despite the _feelings_ the dream aroused in her that she wanted to pretend didn't exist, it had been a good dream. A _very_ good dream. Her chest rose and fell hard and her skin felt too tight on her, and she wanted to do things to herself that she _refused _to do while thinking of Draco. Hermione threw off the blanket and opened her window, fell back onto the bed and fanned herself, hot and flushed and sticky, lying stretched out with the cool air bathing her skin.

She wondered briefly if Draco was doing all right, down in the cellar by himself, and she hoped that he is. Lying in bed with the cool night air on her face and chest and whisking down her legs, Hermione wondered if anyone speaks to him at all. If he was reading the books she left him. If he has seen his mother again. If he hates Hermione. Hermione wasn't sure if she wanted him to hate her or not; she thought _not_, but then what did it matter, really? _She_ had stopped going to see him, stopped visiting. Why would she care if he hated her? But she did.

Hermione brushed her hair off her face and wondered if she was a terrible person and a coward for running away from him the night of _The Kiss _and not going back. But then she thought of the madness of the mission earlier that evening, and told herself that whatever she was, she wasn't a coward. But guilt still tap, tap, tapped sickly in her stomach, and try as she might, Hermione couldn't get back to sleep. Her stomach wrenched at her, and she felt very near tears. Not just because of Malfoy, but _everything_. Hermione realised with slow, sad weariness that she needed the shoulder to cry on that she couldn't give Neville.

Pathetically, even with everyone in the house; so many of her friends and surrogate family members and allies, Hermione couldn't think of anyone she wanted to wake and seek some comfort from. This moment, in the wee hours of the morning – the witching hour, her Nana used to call it – Hermione felt very alone. And then she thought of the dream, and a little tug started in the centre of her chest. _Tug. Tug, tug, tug._ She tried to ignore it, closing her eyes and curling into a ball.

It didn't take long for Hermione to give up on the whole idea of sleep and get up, dragging on a thin tank top and pyjama shorts and slipping down through the cool, dark house. Her feet carried her inexorably toward the dining room, like she was a compass spinning helplessly around to point at his north. She drifted down the hallway, feeling so light-headed from tiredness that it felt like she was floating. Hermione stepped lightly down the stairs, the tip of her wand trailing occasionally against the wall and leaving a twinkle of sparking accidental lights where it touched. She reached the dining room, and stood staring at the trapdoor for a long time.

Her breath caught in her chest and she realised she was panting, gasping for air. There was a pressure inside her chest and it felt like her lungs couldn't inflate properly. She didn't want to open the trapdoor. Frightened. Terrified. A shiver of doubt snapped through her and she wondered what the hell she was even doing. But she didn't go back upstairs to bed, and that has to mean _something_. Hermione swallowed and shifted from one foot to the other, staring at the little wooden latches that open it with glazed, huge eyes.

She didn't know why she was so scared about going down there – it's only Draco. She huffed a little laugh. _Yes, Hermione,_ she thought, _just_ Draco Malfoy. _Malfoy_. _God, what are you thinking?_ The next five minutes was consumed in arguing with her uncooperative brain. Hermione catalogued all the good moments they have shared, to retaliate against her brain, and they were pitifully few. But she remembered the winsome smile he flashed her around his forkful of eggs, and that, _that_, more than the kiss even, was what made her crouch and fumble with the latches on the trapdoor. She was stuffed full of iron filings, shifting and itching under her skin, and he was the magnet drawing her in.

Hermione lifted the trapdoor.

She made her way quietly down the stairs, and froze for a moment when she saw him lying in bed, an open book by his outflung arm, the blankets kicked off his legs and they were bare. Hermione gulped and kept descending the steps, nearly losing her footing a few times as she looked more at Draco in a long-sleeved tee shirt and jockey shorts than at where she put her feet. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might burst straight out of her chest. _What in the fuck are you doing?_ Hermione's rational mind screamed at her, all civility cast aside as she approached Draco. "Draco?" she called softly and he made an 'mmm'ing sound and then, "What?" There was alarm in his voice as his grey eyes jerked open.

"Hermione." Her name was all Draco said as he blinked owlishly at her, his voice curiously soft and happy, and then he sat up and _glared_, eyes narrowed. "Where the hell have you come from, Granger?" Hermione twined her fingers together nervously and shrugged, "I couldn't sleep." He stood up; looming a little and she swallowed and her mouth and throat felt suddenly dry. "So you thought you'd deprive me of my beauty sleep too?" She shook her head and he just looked at her for a long, calculating moment. Hermione flushed under the weight of Draco's stare as it swept over her scantily clad body. He stepped in closer and their bodies nearly touched and his eyes were dark on hers, his tongue wetted his lips.

"I –" Hermione realised that she didn't want to kiss him again, despite the aching feeling in the pit of her stomach and the way her lips wanted to meet his. She had lost her nerve somewhere between opening the trapdoor and Draco's eyes opening. Hermione dropped her eyes to the floor and Draco let out a whoosh of a breath and stepped back from her quickly, sat on the edge of the bed. There was a silence.

"What's the matter, Granger?" Draco sounded tired but _normal_, and a happy feeling kindled in Hermione's stomach as he looked up at her, and she wondered why she had avoided him for so long. If she had known they could avoid all the awkwardness around the kiss with just a look and a sigh, she might not have avoided him for so long. And yet, as she sat on the bed next to him, she felt glad she did. Without her avoidance, she would never have gotten so involved in the war.

"I've been fighting. It's, um," she lied a little bit, "Partly why I haven't been coming to see you anymore." He raised an eyebrow; "Partly?" and she shot him a death glare. "Not now, _Malfoy_," she warned him, but there was no malice in her voice. He smiled just the tiniest bit despite himself and the warm feeling in Hermione's tummy grew more.

"I've been fighting," she repeated, and bit the inside of her cheek, pausing. "I've been out on six missions that have ended in skirmishes against Death Eaters." He blinked and then held her eyes to his. _Iron filings_, she thought to herself and waited for him to speak, but he didn't. Just watched her. So she filled in the space of the silence.

"It's scary, but I'm glad I'm doing it. Sitting around here… I just didn't feel like I was accomplishing anything. I was wasting my time, and now, now I'm actually _helping_. It's a good feeling."

Draco shifted on the bed and said, "Fighting the good, noble fight, Granger?"

Hermione frowned at him, hurt by his flippant tone. "I _am_, in point of fact. Just like everyone else in the Order of the Phoenix."

He ignored her.

"Are you _shirty_ with me, Draco?" she asked at last, and kept her tone light so that he couldn't read anything too intimate into her question – although it was probably obvious anyway. He gave her a look that conveyed his opinion of her intelligence rather too clearly. "What do you think, Granger?"

She glared back at him, "Why don't you just tell me."

Draco rolled his eyes and stood up. "If you can't figure out what's staring you in your bloody stupid face, then you don't deserve to know." Hermione huffed and jumped to her feet too. Why does nothing _ever _go the way she planned it, with Draco?

She tried to apologise; something that she should have probably done first, but she had been too damn tired to think of it. "I'm sorry I stopped coming down here. Really. I'm sorry." And she _was_. Draco's mouth turned down and his lips thinned out, eyes going to the floor, "It's fine. It sounds like you had _far_ more important things to do."

"Fighting _is_ important!"

"And you've spent every minute of every day fighting? You couldn't have come to see me once?" It gave Hermione a gleeful, squishy feeling when she heard him say that even in an acerbic, petulant tone. She smirked to herself, "Why do _you_ care?" He spluttered for a moment and the sight of Draco Malfoy speechless was extremely enjoyable no matter what the circumstance. "I've run out of books, and you didn't bring me any more," he said at last. "I'll bring you some more then," Hermione said briskly.

"When?"

"Tomorrow. But only if you stop being a prat."

He looked at her and fumed silently for a moment, grey eyes penetrating her as usual, and his mouth pouted almost childishly and Hermione found herself fascinated by how it makes him look. "I've been stuck down here for weeks _alone_. I had gotten to the point of wishing the _Weasel_ would come and taunt me, just to have someone to talk to other than myself. Forgive me if I'm a little _snippy_, Hermione."

"I'm sorry, I just…" Hermione had no idea how she was supposed to explain the reason as to why she had avoided Draco for so long without spontaneously combusting from embarrassment. Draco took pity on her, sitting back down on the bed and saying with amazing understanding for him, "We don't have to…talk right now." She joined him on the bed, sitting close enough that their thighs nearly touched, and his arm wrapped itself around Hermione's shoulders. "That's good," she told him sleepily, "Because I don't really feel like talking. 'm tired," and then to prove her point, she yawned.

His arm stayed close around her shoulders, and Hermione felt herself start to fall into sleep, her head drooping against Draco's warm body of its own volition. Her iron filings had settled, and her compass point had brought her north, and a happy feeling suffused her sleepy mind. "_What_?" he asked with a laugh hidden in his dry voice and Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth as she realised she had just mumbled about iron filings and compasses aloud. But before long, she relaxed again and her weight slumped against him. Her breathing turned deep and steady, and even though it should have felt very wrong falling asleep on Draco Malfoy, it didn't, and she wished she had done this days ago.

"I missed you," Draco said, thinking she was asleep, perhaps, and then he added dryly, "And someday I shall have my revenge and lock you in a wardrobe for a month, after bringing you a stack of two player board games, and see how _you_ like it," and Hermione knew that he knew that she was awake and she smiled.

And on that muddled thought, she really did fall asleep.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ Thank you for reading! The end of this chapter with Draco and Hermione did not come easily to me for some reason, but I felt like it _wanted_ to be there so I slogged away at it. I do like it, but on the other hand I'm still not quite sure if it works... What do you all think? Not too unexpected or out of place?

Oh, and did you like the battle scene? I haven't written a lot of action before, so it was quite fun to try my hand at frantic battlefield action. And it's nice to write Ron being brave and heroic instead of being an arse.

And _yay!_ Neville :)


	12. It's Not Much But It's Just Enough

_[Edit: This chapter has been edited, to _hopefully_ catch all the present/past tense muddle-ups. 08/04/13]_

_Author's Note: _Thank you all my wonderful reviewers! Happy New Year, and much appreciation to you all!

If you haven't already, you all have to go read "The Fallout" by everythursday at Hawthorn & Vine. It is the best Dramione epic _ever_. All the feels.

Another longer chapter, involving sleeping, marmalade and scrabble :D

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**It's Not Much But It's Just Enough**_

I owe you, but I know you

You'll have me back but it's gonna take a week

What now, kid? Which way, love?

Will we ever make up and be friends?

[Take Me To the Riot, Stars]

# # #

She had fallen asleep on him.

Draco shifted, his good arm going numb, as her heavy head cut off the blood flow in his left shoulder, fingers going tingly. Hermione stirred at the movement and mumbled a complaint, nuzzling into him further, floppy, heavy deadweight. Draco stared at her hands, all curled up in her lap like little animal paws, and felt like he should be angrier. Like he should be fucking _furious_ with her. Over _three bloody weeks_ she had left him down here alone. After everything she had done before that; all the awkward hours here and there throughout the day, filled with silence and snarking and uncomfortable looks. Hermione had made Draco come to expect her presence, and then just because of a kiss that _she_ had initiated, she had taken the little enjoyment he got from life now away from him.

Draco couldn't summon the energy to be angry though, not right now. Maybe later. Yes, he could be angry later, once he had taken the time to luxuriate in having Hermione back again. The thought was surreal, and Draco remembered back to Hogwarts and how much he had despised Hermione then, and he wondered what his younger self would think of him now. Draco thought a younger Draco Malfoy would likely scoff at him, disgusted in him, horrified by the way Draco's arm held Hermione closer than was necessary, the way he fantasised about kissing her again – and not just kissing but _more_. Draco didn't care. Things changed. Life was different. Draco didn't have any choices. So he had to resign himself to this imprisonment, and just take his pleasure in life where he could find it. And if Hermione Granger made him feel less like clawing his way through the walls with his bare fingers, then...

She snuffled, cheek smushed against his shoulder and head lolling down a little, and Draco made a face as her half-open mouth drooled on his shirt. Now _that_ was just going too far. He stared down at her and the little dribbly wet patch on his tee shirt and wondered what in the hell to do. He wasn't going to sit here and let her bathe him with her saliva. He smirked; not like _that_ anyway. It was awkward with only one half-numb hand and a stump, but eventually Draco got her off his shoulder with a sigh of relief. He could _feel_ the blood rushing back down into his limb, and his fingers and thumb prickled at him. Draco's hand gripped around Hermione's shoulders and under Hermione's arm while her head lolled on his forearm, and he hooked his maimed arm around her waist; forearm pushed into her back to keep her from flopping backward. His stump ached at the pressure as he tried to lift her up and back onto the bed.

She was _not_ bloody light.

In order to get his maimed arm to reach around Hermione and hold her properly Draco had to lean down and across her, and his face somehow ended up right in front of her left breast, the tip of his nose brushing it through the stretchy fabric of her tank top. Warm and soft, and Draco could have turned his head to the side but he didn't. He was _weak_, and he nuzzled it accidentally-on-purpose as he struggled carefully with her limp body. Hermione grumbled incoherently and snorted, mouth agape, her head hanging back over Draco's good arm. Draco dragged her awkwardly up his bed, grinning at her. She must be absolutely knackered to sleep through all this _heaving_ and _flopping._ He gasped as he managed to tip her back onto the bed, her head _fwoofing_ onto his pillow and her legs spread in a highly undignified but appealing manner.

"Lemme 'lone," she mewed and batted out a hand at him before rolling onto her side in a ball. Draco took the chance to admire the curves of her arse, outlined so clearly in the tiny, thin shorts she wore. Her hair had eaten her face; her features hidden behind a heavy cloud of tangled, fluffy curls, and he scraped it off, revealing her pursed up dusky pink mouth and the crescent line of her closed eyes. He wondered if she would kiss him again, or if the last kiss had scared her off forever. Draco stared at her plump, pursed mouth and hoped not. She looked worn though, even fast asleep. Her eyes were shadowed beneath, a vertical frown crease scrunched between her brows, and there was a faint bruise staining her cheekbone and on her thigh a jagged purplish scar. Draco smoothed over its length with one finger. It must have been a bad wound to leave this long, ragged mark, and pointless worry – because she was obviously _fine_ – skittered through him.

He swallowed and pulled his hand away as an urge crept up on him; to touch Hermione elsewhere. Draco most certainly wasn't going to start feeling her up in her sleep. He _wanted_ to – or at least he wanted to wake her up and _then_ explore the luscious curves and hidden dips of her body. But he wouldn't. So he drew a blanket over Hermione's curled up form instead, and sat down at the table, propping his feet up on it and settling his current book on his lap. There was nowhere to sleep but the one narrow bed, and Draco sure as hell wasn't going to crawl in and share it with her – not if they weren't shagging. It was too…intimate. Plus she would probably murder him when she woke up. So it looked like sleep was not on the menu tonight. He didn't really mind.

He tried to read, but his eyes kept going to Hermione. She made so many noises in her sleep. Snuffles and moans and snorts, and at one point she started snoring loudly and he couldn't focus on his book for the noise and it was _so irritating_. But instead of throwing something soft-ish at her to shut her up, he just smiled.

There was a small hot place in his chest lately, which burnt until it hurt whenever he thought of Hermione. He thought maybe it had smouldered to life way back at the Manor, when Aunt Bella had been torturing her and he had let her go. Or maybe it had been later, when Draco had arrived at Godric's Hollow and he had told her about Nagini and his fingers, and she had almost whimpered his name, horror for what he had been through written on her face. But either way, right now it was a searing coin laid over his heart, and _burning_ its way right through the middle of him. She had walked down the stairs tonight and there had been a sharp hot pain in his chest. Happiness and anger and desire, all twined together inextricably.

Draco suspected that he had started caring more about Hermione than was safe, so it was very fortunate that Draco didn't give a fuck about safe anymore. There was nothing safe or right or good anymore – it had all crumbled to dust and ashes in his hands long ago. Draco couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it had begun, but he considered taking the Mark as the tipping point. And now Draco had lost his father, his home, his neatly mapped out future; and even though he still had his mother, something was broken between them and Draco didn't think it could be fixed. He stood each day on the ruins of his old life – what was admitting you _liked_ a mudblood in comparison to everything else? Actually, it was surprisingly uncomfortable, and it grated on the lingering traces of the vicious bigot that Draco used to be.

He wished he had a drink. A strong, well-aged _Meershoch _from the Manor's cellars maybe, with its vivid plummy flavour and its head-swimmingly strong kick. Of course that was impossible in more ways than one; Voldemort and his Death Eaters had consumed most of the _Meershoch_, unappreciative of its rare, fine qualities. They had downed the stuff like it was Muggle swill – and Draco winced and reminded himself not to even think things like _Muggle_ and _swill_ in the same sentence, or it would slip out sometime while Hermione was around. She was skittish enough about whatever the fuck was going on between them; Draco didn't need to add to her – no doubt actually written down somewhere, knowing Hermione – list of reasons not to kiss him again.

His book lay forgotten on his lap, fingers idly rolling the corner of a page sacrilegiously between his fingers and softening and curling the paper. Rolling, unrolling, rolling, unrolling. Draco's grey stare bored into Hermione's snuggled up shape under the blankets, only the tip of her nose visible between the blankets and the masses of hair that had fallen back over her face. She, the infuriating, self-righteous, bushy-haired…_kind_ Hermione Granger was the only thing currently brightening Draco's dreary existence. He felt that there should be something profoundly pathetic about that fact. But there wasn't, not to him. Draco was, above all else, a realist, and he stared at Hermione all little-ball-tangled in his blanket and let go of the tattered shreds of his pride he was still clinging to.

Mud– Muggleborn or not, Hermione was here and Draco was here, and he would damn well take his happiness where he could find it. The idea made the old part of him that he was trying to shed like a moulting snake shiver and roil with angry disgust. Draco's mouth tipped up at one side as Hermione wriggled onto her back and flopped her arms out at her sides, her chest heaving with a sigh. She was cute when she slept. But now he could see the scars Aunt Bella had left; exposed on her chest and her flopped out arm. They looked wrong on her skin, made Draco duck his head and remember. He wanted to crawl onto the bed and wake her with a touch, a whisper of her name in her ear – if he could find her ears beneath her mass of hair – and then kiss the scars, lave them with his tongue as if that could wash them away. He wanted to apologise for not doing what wouldn't have helped anyway, but he still wanted to apologise.

To whisper his remorse against her skin and feel her fingers weave through his hair, and her body push up into his, and his mouth to go from her scars to her… Draco shook his head free of his fantasies and made his eyes turn back to his book. It all depended on Hermione, anyway. On whether she wanted to…_explore_ whatever it was that thrummed like anticipation and denial in the air between them. And despite the fact that she was sleeping in his bed right now, Draco didn't have a fucking clue what Hermione actually wanted from him. He didn't think she did either.

_Fuck_, he hated it when he wasn't in control. Draco's fingers flexed involuntarily on the paper rolled between them, and his lips flattened as the corner of the page tore away.

# # #

Hermione swam up to consciousness slowly, too warm and cosy to wake with a start. Instead she lay curled up like a cat and listened drowsily to what had woken her. Voices talking; both hushed and she thought it was nice that they didn't want to wake her. Hermione's brow furrowed as the fog of sleep retreated, and a moment later she realised that the lower, deeper voice was Draco's. Oh god. Hermione remembered what had happened last night – or earlier this morning to be precise – and her heart felt like it stopped mid-beat in her chest. Just froze, and her chest constricted and her face went blazing hot and her fingers clenched into fists, and then her heart started again and she swore resounding and long inside her head. She had fallen asleep and Draco hadn't woken her up, and now he was _talking to someone while she lay in his bed._

_Oh god._

She didn't want to lift her head out of the nest of blanket and hair it was buried under, and she strained to identify the other person's muffled tones through the layers. Soft, high-pitched; a feminine voice. Not Ron or Harry then. Thank god for small favours. Hermione chanced very slowly and quietly inching her head up out of the blankets, while still pretending to be asleep. She had this insane, childish idea that if she pretended to be asleep then this wouldn't have happened. Wouldn't count. Like how a toddler covered their eyes and thought no one could see them, because they couldn't see. Stupid, and illogical, but… Hermione stilled her inner babble and listened.

"She's been very tired lately. It's nice to see her getting some rest," the feminine voice said, and Draco's lower tones replied roughly, "I wouldn't know."

"Well now you do." And Hermione knew only Luna spoke in that dreamy, contented way, as if everything was _settled_ just by her uttering the words. A little breath puffed from her lips. Luna. That wasn't so bad. Hermione took a deep breath for courage and sat up just as Draco said, "Yes, now I do," exceedingly dryly and Hermione could _tell_ he was upset even if Luna couldn't, and she felt a stab of guilty hurt. "Hermione. I'm sorry, did we wake you?" Luna asked and smiled at Hermione, her pale golden hair shining in two plaits and her face glowing. Hermione rubbed her palm over her face and made a bleary sound. Her mouth was dry and her hair was a mess, and Draco was standing there with that damned faintly amused expression on his face as he stared at her.

Hermione swallowed and pushed her knuckles over her eyes, "Yes. But that's fine. I should be going anyway… I just… I fell asleep and…" Hermione doesn't know how make sure Luna knows nothing happened, and that it wasn't what it looked like without looking even guiltier of _fraternising_ with Draco, and it's all a sick joke because _nothing happened._ "Love me and leave me, Granger?" Draco drawled and she shot him daggers, flushing furiously. He was in a good mood this morning; Hermione knew that because Draco was always most like his old irritating self when he was happy. She suspected that was just his natural state and not related to being a bigot. "It's all right, Hermione." Luna bestowed a vague smile on Hermione, "I'm good at keeping secrets." Hermione fumed. "Dra– Malfoy, what have you been telling her? There's nothing to be kept secret, Luna. Really." Draco raised an eyebrow; "There's the fact that you slept in my bed last night."

Hermione paused with her mouth open, ready to say _but that's nothing terrible_ when she thought of Ron's response to learning that she had slept in Draco Malfoy's bed. Her mouth snapped shut. Luna beamed at Draco and Hermione, "If anyone asks, I'll tell them that you came down here just after me, shall I?" Hermione nodded numbly, her eyes fixed on Draco. Stump hidden inside his sleeve – he always wore long sleeves, but not because of the stump, and her mind shied away from _why _– and all she can see is nothing where there should be something. Hermione hadn't gotten used to his new one-handed state yet, and she wondered if she ever would. "Thanks, Luna," she told the other witch, who bounced on her heels and with a goodbye and a dreamy smile trotted lightly up the stairs.

Harry and Ron wouldn't be happy about her seeing Draco; they had been relieved when she had stopped visiting him. They had never said much about the time she had spent with him, but only because she had shut them down as soon as they broached the topic. Shut them down bluntly and decisively enough that after a few attempts they had given up on pestering her, although they never stopped giving her worried, disapproving looks whenever she went into or emerged from the cellar door. Hermione had heard them muttering to each other about it, snatched words that stuttered to a halt as soon as they noticed her. Phrases like _SPEW _and _charity case_ and _you know Hermione, she's just got to help everyone, whether they deserve it or not_ and variations on _shush, she's coming_ were all she had picked up. No, they wouldn't be happy she had come to see Draco, but they wouldn't say anything either.

The trapdoor banged shut and Hermione turned her eyes on Draco. "You! Why didn't you wake me up?" His eyes skittered away uncomfortably. "I meant to. But I fell asleep," he admitted and Hermione squinted suspiciously at him, "On _what_?" He pointed, "The folding chair. My back is fucking _killing_ me today thanks to you." She let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "No, Hermione, I wouldn't sleep on the same bed as you," Draco sighed and sat down at the table, breakfast in front of him. Hermione blinked. She wasn't sure if she was appreciative of the fact that he hadn't presumed to share his bed with her, or offended by the way he had said it. Like he wouldn't _want_ to. Hermione smudged her knuckles hard over her eyes again, and told herself she wouldn't want him all bony and lanky in bed with her anyway. If he had crawled in, all bony and _lanky_, though, then maybe she would have woken up and Luna wouldn't have caught her in _Draco Malfoy's bed_. But it all felt like a sad little attempt at rationalising away a feeling of rejection that she shouldn't be feeling right now. Not regarding Draco.

It wasn't like she had kissed him again last night or anything. That had just been a onetime glitch, and it wouldn't happen again. Maybe Draco was right, and Hermione was a terrible liar; she couldn't even lie successfully to herself.

"I wouldn't let you anyway," she snapped before she could stop herself, and nearly missed the flinch before he recovered his composure. "Maybe you just wouldn't trust yourself next to my body, Hermione. Considering what happened last time we were in close proximity before last night." He calmly took a bite out of his toast. Hermione wanted to kick something, and so she kicked his bed and saw her pale bare leg, "_Fuck!_" Draco looked over at her with mild curiosity, and she glowered at him. "I can't go upstairs in _this_." She plucked at her thin tank top and waved her hands at her little sleep shorts and he held a finger up and chewed his toast and swallowed before he spoke, while she waited impatiently. "I have the jersey you left down here when we kis–"

"Myjersey!" Hermione interrupted, yelping the words in a jumble. "Whereisit?" Draco stuck his tongue in his cheek and looked like he was struggling to hold back a smirk, no doubt highly amused by how flustered Hermione was. She scowled at him.

"My _jersey_, Draco?" she asked, and he leaned back in his chair, legs stretched lazily out in front of him. "Well after you _kissed_ me," he began and Hermione turned away from him. She wasn't going to just stand there and let him _mock_ her. "What?" he asked, and she compressed her lips and stared casting her eyes about for her jersey. Tears clouded her eyes and she blamed the stress of the past few weeks. How was it that Draco could be so nice one moment, and then so snarky and horrible the next? Last night…last night had been just what Hermione had needed; simple comfort, silent and without judgement or expectations. And now he was being a horrible prat and teasing her. "What?" his voice came again from behind her and Hermione clenched her jaw, "If you're going to be an arse, then I don't wish to speak to you."

"But you _did_ kiss me." It sounded like he was speaking almost directly into Hermione's ear and she stifled a shriek and spun around, coming face to chest with Draco. She looked up into his face and his grey eyes were calm and without any trace of mockery as he met her gaze. Her hands came up to her cheeks as she tried to both cool her blush and hide the giveaway colour. "I don't see what that has got to do with _anything_, Draco," Hermione said primly and looked quickly away from his eyes, staring at his left shoulder. Broad and lean in the dark blue Muggle shirt. "But you _did_." It seemed like he was seeking confirmation, and Hermione thought maybe hearing her admit it might shut him up about it, so she said, "Yes. I did," and the shoulder she was staring at moved, muscles shifting under the layers of tee shirt and skin, and then his hand was warm on her cheek. She froze under his touch but didn't pull away, keeping her eyes glued to his shoulder.

"Are you likely to do it again?" Draco asked and she creased her brow. What kind of question was that? What did he expect her to say to _that_? And then, "I don't know, Draco," spilled a little sharply from her lips, sarcastic and defensive but still an admission and Hermione could have smacked herself in the face. He sets her off-balance, and right now, still gummed up with sleep and embarrassment, her defences aren't up. She rushed to cover herself with, "I didn't last night, did I?" Draco didn't say anything, but his thumb rubbed along the line of Hermione's jaw and she finally pushed it away, still without looking at his face.

"No. You didn't." There was a flat coldness to his voice that Hermione didn't like hearing, and she remembered the way he had let out a low moan and held her tight during the kiss, every second clear in her mind even though it had been weeks ago. With a dizzy shock, Hermione realised _maybe_ Draco wasn't mocking or teasing her, because _maybe_ he wanted to do it again.

"I – I – We…" Hermione tried to tell him that she still didn't want to talk about it, or think about it. That she _couldn't_, not right now, because the idea of kissing Draco Malfoy was both too terrifying and tempting to give free rein in her head. "Hermione?" he prompted and she took a step back, "This is why I stopped coming to see you." He huffed a low laugh and said "I realise that, Hermione," like it was incredibly stupid of her to think he _didn't_ realise. And she supposed it was, but it was too early in the morning and she hadn't had her cup of tea yet, and Draco was almost _interrogating_ her. And then his breath was warm on her forehead and wafted the scent of hot toast and marmalade over her face as he said very quietly, "You are the only person in this house, apart from my mother, who seems to give a single fuck about me, Hermione. If you're going to fuck off and have nothing to do with me at some point down the line, then _please_ just do it now." He pointed to the left, at the bed, "Your jersey."

Hermione gulped. Shuffled across to the bed and scooped up her jersey, pulling it on. "I have to go," she said and it was true; there was a mission planning session after breakfast and she wanted to be there. But the muscles in Draco's jaw twitched and he nodded like he understood, but he didn't. Hermione thought of the way he had held her until she had fallen asleep last night. Thought of how she had just dropped him like a hot coal and ignored him for weeks in spite of his dependence on her for company, and then when she had needed him he had held her. Hermione would never have thought she would be the hurtful one and he the bigger person. It was an odd and unpleasant role reversal. Hermione gnawed on her lip and stared at him; looking no worse for wear for spending his night on one of those flimsy folding chairs while she usurped his bed.

Hermione zipped up her jersey, and said, "I could teach you to play Scrabble, later?"

He tipped his head to one side, "The one with all the little letters?"

"Yes. The one with all the little letters. You have to try to make words out of random letters you pull out of the bag, and…" She trailed off; trying to think of how to best sum it up for someone whose main experience in Muggle games so far had been acquired playing Ludo and Rummikub.

"That sounds…awful." Draco said with emphasis on the awful, and his eyes sparkled and smiled at her even though his mouth wasn't.

"Well it's not. It's fun." Her eyes had pinned themselves to his mouth, expecting him to smile, but he hadn't and now she was just staring at his mouth and couldn't seem to pull her eyes away and it was just getting _awkward_. "If you say so," he smiled at last, slow and lazy, and Hermione wondered if he had done it because he had noticed her blatant perving. He looked different when he smiled. Younger. Lighter. Hermione tugged at the sides of her shorts; the jersey might have helped, but the shorts still looked suspicious. "I do say so," she said, as she edged for the stairs and wished she hadn't pulled at her shorts because now Draco's eyes were on her legs, and the look in them was far too intent for her liking.

She felt like a gazelle under the eyes of a lion. A rather pale, skinny, pointy-faced ferret-lion.

"So I'll see you later then…" Hermione offered and Draco nodded acknowledgement, eyes sliding slowly up her body to meet hers and holding them for a long, long few seconds, before turning and sitting back down at the table. He calmly resumed eating his breakfast, and Hermione stared wild-eyed at him for a moment. The way he had looked at her made that feeling of compasses and iron filings come back, and it felt like all the blood was rushing to the surface of her skin; she felt hot and hyperaware of the cool draft on her bare legs. How did he do that?

There was warmth running through the centre of her as Hermione slipped up the stairs to her bedroom to change before breakfast – she could shower later. She had gotten a few odd looks in the dining room, emerging from the trapdoor in her combo of jumper and thin pyjama shorts, but Harry and Ron hadn't been there at least, and most people's focus had been on Molly Weasley's delicious cooking. Hermione brushed her tangled hair roughly, staring in her bedroom mirror and realising how flushed she looked, her brown eyes almost glowing, and the realisation just made her flush redder and blotchy. It was all Draco's fault.

Hermione gave up on her hair and dragged it back into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. She stripped off her shorts for a pair of jeans, and the jersey and tank top were replaced with a bra and shirt. Hermione hesitated, and then grabbed her zip-up jersey, pulling it back on. It was too warm for a jersey, really, but…she could smell Draco on it. A nice, clean smell of the plain old vanilla soap he uses and the barest hint of sweat. A part of her wondered what exactly he'd been doing with it the past few weeks to get his smell on it – cuddling it in bed like some sort of creepy comfort blanket? The thought of him doing that was rather appealing, actually, but still…a little weird. Hermione's reflection smiled slyly at her and a little voice popped up in her head and reminded her that she was being equally as weird by wearing the jersey just because _it smelt like him_.

Hermione conceded the point, but she didn't take it off. She told herself defensively that it was just that he smelt good. That was all. She was allowed to like the way a person smelt; there wasn't anything odd about that.

She didn't even _know_ why she bothered trying to lie to herself.

# # #

_Scrabble, the Rematch_

The little bone-coloured tiles clacked on the board as Hermione laid _family_ down vertically from the_ i_ in Draco's _unicorn_. She looked at the word and sighed, absently jotting down her score of 15. Draco didn't miss Hermione's reaction to the word, _family_, and as his long fingers idly rearranged his letter tiles he said, "Are they…? I mean, did they…?"

She shook her head hard, "_No._ No, they're alive."

"You don't see them, though?" Draco's voice was casual and he wasn't looking at her, still trying to construct a word out of his tiles. This was their third match in as many days, and Hermione had – of course – won the last two games. "No." Her eyes stuck on the small word, _family_ and she blinked rapidly. "I had to _obliviate_ them some months back. They weren't going to be safe with me as their daughter."

He looked up at her, startled, "So you…?"

"Made them not my parents. Took their memories of me and, and _everything _away, and gave them different names, and lives, and the strong urge to emigrate somewhere far away."

Hermione has been missing them a lot lately. It's their anniversary in a few days, and she always gave them a little gift and a card to mark the day. Now they don't even know she ever existed. Draco looked at her and there was a deep sympathy in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said and she _should_ have gotten used to him being nice after everything that had changed, but sometimes Hermione still half-expected him to look at her with contempt and call her a _mudblood_. She blinked, startled. "It was the right thing to do. At least I know they're safe." Her throat felt thick as she spoke and she cleared it and looked down at the game board. Tears prickled behind her eyes and she took a deep breath, forcing them back. "It's your turn."

Draco dropped his eyes without another word and his hand hovered over his tiles. Hermione appreciated the way he just let things drop. Harry or Ron or…well, basically any one else would pester her to keep talking. To _let it all out_. Draco understood that sometimes _letting it out_ didn't help. It was restful. He seemed to make a decision, and then his lips twitched in that way she had learned meant he was trying not to smirk, and he laid _sex_ off the _s _in her _snow_. Hermione stared at it and two spots of red flared on her cheekbones. _And_ his _x_ was on a triple letter score, damn him. This put him in the lead. She scowled and scribbled down 26 in his column and Draco watched her like he thought she might cheat and fudge the numbers. She couldn't meet his eyes. _Sex_. All right, so it _was_ a word, but…it seemed somehow inappropriate.

His next word was _breast_ and Hermione eyed him with dark suspicion, but his face was perfectly innocent as he arranged and rearranged his tiles. All she could make from her stupid letters was _lump_ and her score was still less than his. She caught his lips twitch again as she harrumphed over the scores. She thought he was just lording his winning position over her, but then he put down _a_, _r_, _s_, and _e_ in quick succession and Hermione's hands clenched and she froze. He had better bloody well have an _n_, _i_, and _c_ going down after that. But then Draco's eyes peeked up at her and he laid down _h_, _o_, and Hermione grabbed his wrist before he could finish the awful word, thoughts of breasts and sex swimming in her head.

"That's not a proper word!" Hermione's voice came out in a squeak and he grinned openly at her.

"It is too. Arse–"

"It's slang! You can't use it! It's not appropriate!" she squeaked loudly over the rest of the word, drowning it out, and his grin just spread and he said, "You call me that all the time. What's your problem with it now?" Hermione blushed and realised she hadn't even considered he might have meant the insult definition…after sex and breast she had thought he was trying to… Her face flamed hotter than the sun and she looked down at the game board.

_Arseho_,it read and she wanted to sink into the ground. "I – I just don't like it when people try to use words that are inappropriate!"

"Inappropriate _how_, exactly?"

"Swear words. Obviously."

"You blush like _that_ over swear words? Because _I _haven't noticed that reaction of yours."

"You – you _arse_!" It slipped out before Hermione could think about the word choice, and Draco smirked and opened his mouth. Hermione flung her hand up in a _stop_ gesture. "If you're about to say what I _think_ you're about to say, then you should rethink that choice."

Draco said it with great relish, "What? Arsehole?" and Hermione's temper bubbled up and over. "Oh!" she gasped furiously, and peppered him with a handful of tiles, pinging him in the face and chest and he held up his arms to ward off the flying projectiles, laughing. Really, really laughing. She was mortified and annoyed and _not _amused. Or at least more mortified and annoyed than she was amused. "Stop laughing at me, you, you _annoying_ _git_," she stammered and Draco just laughed harder.

"I'll go!" Hermione threatened, not really meaning it, and then screeched her chair back and snapped her mouth shut so fast she almost bit her tongue as Draco shot to his feet. God he was _quick_. He glared at her, shifting smooth and fast around the table so he was between her and the exit. Her breath caught and she stared wide-eyed up at him. "You don't get to do that," he told her, voice low and dangerous and Hermione gulped. Draco's laughing mouth was tense now, and his grey eyes were cold steel and iron and not silvery and bright in the slightest. "I didn't …" she tried to take it back and explain but Draco overrode her, stalking closer so that she had to crane her neck back to look up at him. "I told you the other day, Hermione. If you don't want to be here, then go. But don't you _dare_ hold that shit over my head." He _loomed_ and his face was a thundercloud waiting to break, and Hermione wondered what would happen when it did.

"I didn't _mean_ it." The words spilled out of her, rushed and shakily frightened by the frozen-over grey of his eyes, and Hermione screeched the chair further back from him and stumbled to her feet, not breaking eye contact. His hand had reached out for her wrist and now he let it drop back to his side.

"You didn't mean it," he repeated blankly and she nodded, the air snapping between them as her nodding head drags her eyes away from his. Draco exhaled, long and shaky and his pale complexion fired up with pink. Hermione watched, fascinated by the colour in his cheeks. He turned half away from her. "Sorry." The one word was a mumble that Hermione had to strain to make out. She looked down at her toes and shoved the tips of her fingers in her jeans pockets, hunched her shoulders up around her ears. "'S okay."

"I scared you."

"Maybe a little," Hermione admitted but her voice was clear and unafraid; her chin came up and she stared at his face in profile. Sharp nose and too-long hair falling around his face, faint stubble on his cheeks, and mouth a flattened line. "I wasn't going to…" Draco's eyes flicked over to her briefly and Hermione nodded, "I know. You just," she picked her words carefully now, "Startled me," she finished delicately. Her hand lifted out as if it wasn't under her control, and the backs of her fingers brushed gently over the side of Draco's maimed forearm. The cotton of his shirt was rough on her finger pads. Draco jolted under her touch, and looked up at her, tight lines around his eyes that no teenager should have. She knew she got them too sometimes, after too much stress and not enough sleep.

"Do you want to finish?" Hermione gestured at the forgotten game and Draco shrugged. Her fingers went back to his arm and half curled around it just below his elbow, skimming a light touch over the shirt and the look he gave her was one of puzzlement. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, looking down at where her thumb rubbed over his arm, shirt wrinkling under the firm little strokes of her thumb. It suddenly seemed extremely _intimate_, what she was doing, so Hermione closed her hand completely around his arm and turned her grip into a firm tug. "Come on. I've still got nearly an hour before I have to go." At his hesitancy, she added, "You just don't want to because you know I'll win. _Again_." Draco lifted an eyebrow, "_I'm_ winning, if I recall correctly. And I do." Hermione snorted at that, letting go of his arm and sitting back down, watching as he rounds the table to his seat. "Well you won't be for long. I never lose."

They gathered up the pieces she had flung at him and straightened the game board back to what it was – or as near as they remembered, and played on. Hermione, instead of being highly irritated when Draco won, was glad he did, after what had happened, and he didn't crow about it nearly as much as she thought he would.

He got up when she stood to go, and walked over to the stairs with her, like a boy escorting his girlfriend to her front door after a date. Hermione felt oddly shy. "Bye," she said and he just nodded very slightly. She stared at him. He was really very attractive when he wasn't being a nasty, bigoted prat, although she would never call him typically handsome. Yet there was something appealing to each of his features, despite the overall pointed look they gave him when all put together. The corner of his mouth lifted up, "What?" he asked. Hermione shook her head, "Nothing." _Don't think, Hermione. Don't over think things._

"You're staring at me."

"Am I?" _Stop thinking and just do it._

"_Yes_, Hermione, you _are_," he drawled coolly, but his eyes were nervous on hers, and when she reached out and slipped her fingers into the cradle of his hand, his muscles were tense. His fingers snapped around hers like a steel trap.

Hermione didn't let herself think about it; she just pushed herself up on her toes and kissed him. It didn't go quite as well as she had hoped, but much better than she had feared. She had been aiming for his left cheek, but her lips sort of landed half on his cheek and half on his jaw. Draco swayed back on his heels, whether from surprise or from the weight of her basically falling against him, Hermione didn't know. Before she could really even register what his skin felt like beneath her lips she lost her nerve. She dropped back to the flats of her feet and stared at them, snugged in their stripy socks.

"What…?" Draco's voice sounded rough and he cleared his throat.

"You say that quite a lot, don't you?" Hermione observed, still intently staring at her toes, heart beating out of her chest. Bah_-doomp _bah_-doomp _bah_-doomp_.

"Only when I'm confused."

"I don't see what's so confusing." The stripes on her socks went purple, white, blue, white, green, white on one foot, Hermione noticed, and orange, white, pink, white, blue, white on the other. A mismatched pair. How fitting. Hermione looked up at Draco and tried to raise one eyebrow in mimicry of his patented dry expression, but the right eyebrow kept wanting to join the left and she probably just ended up looking startled.

"Of course. Because you kissing me _again_ isn't at all con–" Draco's palm found her right cheek and moulded itself to the soft curve of her face.

The trapdoor was wrenched open and the two of them nearly _leapt_ away from each other. BAH_-DOOMP _BAH_-DOOMP _BAH_-DOOMP_. Hermione's heart ratcheted up about ten notches, and she stared at Draco wide-eyed, like a stunned rabbit. "'Mione, leave the ferret and come on. The mission's been moved up. Briefing's now!" Ron's voice yelled down impatiently and Hermione cleared her throat softly, eyes still pinned on Draco, "Okay Ron! Coming!" She didn't think she sounded shaky, but her hands trembled a little. "_Later_," she promised Draco quietly with a meaningful look, and inwardly cursing their terrible, horrible timing – she had only just gotten up the courage to do that and then bam, interrupted, damnit - she padded quickly up the steps. Draco watched her go, and Hermione thought he looked extra-murderous toward Ron in her last glance back at him at the bottom of the stairs. Hermione felt a little murderous herself, although she knew it wasn't really Ron's fault – he couldn't help when the mission was.

Ron slammed the trapdoor shut behind her with gratuitous vigour, and Hermione flinched at the sound.

# # #

_Author's Note: _So, what did you think? It won't be long now before things start picking up the pace, and begin getting both sexier, and darker. Consider this the calm before the storm. Did you enjoy it? Did Draco and Hermione's dynamic etc seem believable? Give me all your feedback :D

Also – fingers crossed I haven't let too many typos slip this time. I'm making an attempt to be more mindful of them :p


	13. The Darkness Filled With Dread

_Author's Note:_ Thank you lovely, lovely people who review, follow and favourite! I so love getting your comments on the story – concrit and suggestions included – and hearing that you liked/loved it just makes my day. You are all splendiferous :D

Here's another nice long chapter, with lots of action taking place.

_Enjoy!_

**The Darkness Filled With Dread**

"What the hell is the Order thinking? You shouldn't be going out again so soon. It's only been two days since you got _that_." Draco flapped his hand at the edge of the half healed burn wound on the side of Hermione's neck – the rest spreading down under her shirt; across the top of her left shoulder and down over her shoulder blade and back. "If they send you out into the field when you're not in top form they'll only make the Death Eaters' job easier for them." Draco scowled, face sullen and mouth twisted in that way he had, grey eyes narrowed and sharp as he glared at the air over Hermione's shoulder.

Hermione argued back, "I volunteered. And I'm _fine_. Tricia healed me up as soon as the retrieval crew apparated me back. In another few days there won't even be a scar." Hermione folded up the game board and laid it neatly in its box. _Risk_. Draco had won _again_. But she would get him eventually; she just had to keep trying - she'd find his weakness in the end.

His brow furrowed Draco stared at her in disbelief. "And why the _fuck_ did you volunteer, Granger?" She hid a smile by scratching her nose. A concerned Draco could be sweet in the _oddest_ way. But he had no reason to be concerned, and Hermione told him so, "Because I'm _fine_. I'm not letting a little injury keep me out of things. Since we arrived in Godric's Hollow I've wasted too much time not doing my part. I'm making up for it now."

"How exactly are you doing _that_? By being a _Gryffindor_ and running headlong into danger without thought of your own safety, and getting yourself killed?" Draco was scathing and Hermione pulled her mouth down into a frown. "Just because you're a cowardly Slyth–" She cut herself off before she could finish and quickly said, "Sorry." It was too easy to fall back into the old malicious bickering habits from Hogwarts, and forget that they weren't enemies anymore. Draco stared at her unflinchingly, leaning back in his chair with his long legs stretched out under the table and just _staring_, silently accusing. "Sorry," Hermione said again, "I just meant…if we're going with House traits…and…"

"Mm." Draco hummed his understanding brusquely, and corrected her, "Cunning, Granger. Slytherins are known for their _cunning_. Not their _cowardice_. We're just too smart to get involved in situations where the odds stacked against us. _We_, unlike Gryffindors, don't charge merrily off and get ourselves killed. We do the _smart_ thing, and bide our time. Wait for the right moment to strike." Draco's voice was cold, and he examined his nails as he spoke. They were ragged from being bitten and the cuticles were neglected; not the elegantly manicured nails Draco had always had at Hogwarts.

Hermione was more in tune with Draco's mostly hidden emotions these days; familiar with the little tells that let her know whether he was angry, offended, or hurt. This one was all three, she thought. "I know you're not a coward, Draco. If you were…well, there are a lot of choices you would have made differently if you were." She shifted her feet under the table and her foot nudged unexpectedly against another foot. Draco's, and he twitched slightly and his eyes flickered at the touch. Hermione left her foot there. "But _you_ are entirely stupid, if you're going to charge off on a mission right now," Draco answered, his bare toes stroking up against the sensitive arch of her foot and it was _her_ turn to twitch and jolt. She tried to look annoyed but her foot was ticklish, and he was extremely distracting.

"Firstly, I'm not _charging off_ as you so charmingly put it – it's an approved Order mission, not some noble quest. And secondly, how many times do I need to tell you that I am _fine_?" Hermione jerked her foot away from his probing toes and stood up abruptly, glaring at Draco as she snatched up _Risk_.

"What is it?" he asked idly.

"What's _what_?" Hermione tucked _Risk_ away on top of the dresser with Draco's meagre collection of games and books.

"The mission."

Hermione licked her lips and didn't look at Draco as she fidgeted with the games, lining the boxes up precisely, feeling uncomfortable and backed into a corner that she _really_ didn't want to be in. "You _know_ I can't tell you that." She wished she could. It would be nice to be able to talk to him about the specifics of missions _before_ they took place, to get his advice on tactics, his reassurance. Hermione knew Draco was much better than her at that sort of thing, if _Risk_ was any indication of skill; she hadn't won a single game yet. "I meant, is fighting likely to occur? I don't want any details, Hermione," Draco clarified patiently, and Hermione turned around.

His hair was really far too long; she mused, and wondered if he would let her cut it for him. Draco shoved a fall of white-blonde hair out of his eyes as if he knew what she was thinking, and Hermione pondered whether she should attempt lying to him just to make him drop the issue. Not that the chances of him believing her lie were high. It was strange, dealing with a Draco Malfoy that showed concern for her. Sometimes _too_ much concern. If he showing any more concern he was going to be as bad as Harry. Hermione held in a chuckle; that wasn't a bad idea, actually – nothing would shut Draco up quicker than being told he was acting like Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Maybe," Hermione said cagily at last. But she had paused too long between Draco asking the question and her answering, and Hermione knew that her evasiveness didn't fool him in the slightest. If she _hadn't_ been fighting, then she would have just answered straight away. "So that's a _yes_, then?"

"Oh, why do _you_ care?" Hermione blustered with frustration, stalking over to Draco's unmade bed and straightening it absentmindedly, taking her annoyance out on the tangled chaos of sheets and blankets. "Merlin knows," Draco sighed with faux-weariness, "I ask myself that same question constantly." Hermione smiled at the bed, suddenly feeling warm and glowy. He hadn't denied it. "You aren't fit to fight, Hermione," he started up again and she swore inside her own head, dragging Draco's top sheet up the bed and smoothing out the wrinkles with small, vicious motions. "Tricia cleared me. As did the Mungo's Healer that was here yesterday. Are you trying to tell me you know more about healing than _them_ now?"

Draco didn't say anything and Hermione nodded with satisfaction. Good, that had shut him up; even he couldn't argue with a medi-witch or Healer's assessment. She pulled the blankets up and straightened them, and leaned back, easing the cricks out of her spine, opening her mouth to drive in the final blow of her argument. Then a startled yelp of pain bubbled up in her throat instead, as something – a hand? – pressed gently but firmly on her injured shoulder blade. The touch sent her nerves into a frenzy of firing, zinging messages to her brain – _hurts hurts hurts._ Hermione bowed away from the touch and had nowhere to go but fall forward over the bed, her weight on her right hand as she held her left arm stiffly by her side, not wanting to aggravate the pain blooming to life in her shoulder.

"You're not _fine_," Draco bit out, sounding strained and Hermione hissed angrily and waited for the lingering sparks of pain to fade a bit before she choked out, "What was _that_ for?"

"To prove that you're not healed enough to go into a situation that calls for physical health and fitness."

"I've managed out in the field with worse injuries, and it only hurts when_ someone _touches it. I can cope, Draco," Hermione argued as she tried to push herself off the bed with her right hand; every move jolted her shoulder and sent waves of pain throbbing from her upper left back right down to the fingertips of her left hand. She swore to herself, annoyed with Draco for setting off the pain.

"Look at you – you can't even get up!"

"I can so!" Hermione retorted sharply, and pushed herself back and up and came in contact with something warm and hard, and when Hermione shakily straightened she felt Draco's hot, shaky and shallow breath on her ear. _Oh_. His hand gripped the curve of her waist and steadied her, and she swayed back against him. On purpose. She angled so that only her right shoulder bumped back into his chest, and her bum pressed firm against his upper thighs, which meant that his…well. She pushed back further, under the pretence of losing her balance, but she couldn't feel anything against her bum or her lower back. She was half-relieved, face flushing hot at her own nerve.

But Hermione's left shoulder was still bursting with flowers of sharp pain and she dropped her head casually back onto Draco's chest with a heavy exhalation. "See. I'm up. And you're a git."

"I'm _holding_ you up. And yes, I am a git. Did it take you this long to work that out, Hermione? And here I thought you were the clever one of the Golden Trio." There was a teasing, rough quality to his voice that Hermione thought sounded far too appealing, and it was with a small sound of disappointment that she made herself straighten and turned to face him. Her legs pressed hard into the bed behind her, and Draco stood right there, eyes half hidden behind his fringe and Hermione reached up and brushed it to the side with her fingers. "You need a haircut." Draco lifted his mouth in that lopsided smile, "And I suppose you're offering?" Hermione's breath caught and she resisted the urge to nibble on her lip and smile like a shy love struck girl. "Yes, actually, if you'd like me to," she said briskly instead.

"Don't try to change the subject, Hermione. I'm not stupid." Draco smirked at Hermione as she swore under her breath, "Shit." She scowled at his mouth, the bow of his top lip fascinating her. It was probably why he could sneer so well; his mouth was shaped perfectly for sneers. And other things. But she wasn't going _there_. "I thought I had you there for a minute," she complained, not really meaning it.

"Ha. As if you would ever be able to fool me. You couldn't fool a confounded Hufflepuff, Hermione. It's not in your blood." He paused uncertainly as if saying _not in your blood_ might have been skirting the invisible line between things they talked about and things they didn't. Hermione smiled at him reassuringly; she knew what he had meant. She nudged Draco into giving her more space – god, he always stood so _close_; it unnerved her – and turned back to his bed, only half-made. She tucked in the sheets and blankets with hospital corners the Muggle way, like her mother had taught her so long ago.

"Hermione… You aren't healed enough. Really."

"It doesn't matter, Draco. They need me. I have to. It's too important not to." Hermione glanced at Draco, and he was rubbing his hand over his slightly stubbled cheek tiredly, shoulders slumped a little. There was no way he was going to convince her not to go on the mission, and they both knew it. He sighed heavily. Swept his hair back off his face again, "Be careful? Please?"

"Worried you're going to lose me, Draco?" Hermione meant it jokingly but it came out far too serious, too close to truth and intimacy and places she was afraid to go aloud, and she froze. Peeked nervously at him as he stared at the wall, silent. His face was expressionless and pale, all sharp angles, with grey stones for eyes as he said, "Yes." Hermione's throat clicked as she swallowed hard, replaying the one word in her mind. She straightened and boggled wide-eyed at him, and Draco looked quickly down at the floor and added, "If you weren't here, who would make my bed for me? I might have to do it myself and _that_ would be a terrible tragedy." She grinned weakly as the tension drained from the air, and then Draco rocked back on his heels and squinted at her intently, "Why _are_ you making my bed, Granger?"

Hermione blushed hot and her flustered hands let the bedspread fall as Draco smirked smugly at her.

# # #

"Right." Ron's voice was a murmur barely audible above the driving rain and wind outside the small wizarding town of Flannelfoot, and Hermione kept her head ducked down and her hood pulled up to avoid the stinging drops on her face. They couldn't use magic this close in until they were ready to attack; they might set off the outer wards. They didn't want to alert the Death Eaters to their presence until they were on top of them. The element of surprise. Hermione had never been more grateful that her robe was impregnated with a rain-repelling charm; the rain slid right off the wool rather than collecting on in it and soaking through. Wood and Chang huddled to her right, and Neville and Colin Creevy – too young to be fighting, far too young but they needed everyone they could get – were on her left. Ron was right in front of her, eyes and teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

"One more time. We go down the main street, take the first left onto Trifle Lane, and it's the third house on the right. We don't know where the documents are, although our source indicated that they will most likely be in the upstairs study. If we get them, then we'll have the plans for all their major attacks and movements for the next three months. _Three months_. We'll either be prepared for every move they make, or they'll be forced to scrap every single plan. Either way, this is the sort of thing that could be a major turning point in the war. We have to succeed. You know what to do. Now let's _go._"

They nodded; throats dry despite the rain and hearts pounding in their chests. Hermione held her wand tight in her hand and thought; _I'm going to make it_. Her brain flashed back to what Draco had said to her earlier in the day. _Good luck, Hermione, _with his hand on her wrist as they stood at the bottom of the stairs that now bisected Hermione's life into the Draco-part and the Order-part. And then because he was Draco Malfoy, he'd added, _and for fuck's sake, none of this 'noble Gryffindor' shit. Use spells that are going to __hurt__. You know the Death Eaters will. Don't fucking die because you won't do what needs to be done, you hear me?_

Hermione followed behind Cho, feet quick and silent on the narrow muddy path through the forest that surrounded Flannelfoot, mind racing. She didn't want to use the sorts of spells that Ron now always used. She had before, but every time she used spells designed only to rend and maim and hurt it seemed _wrong_. So, so wrong. But she wanted to live. Hermione wanted to go back to Godric's Hollow and have a celebratory drink with the other Order members who had gone on the mission. To toast Ron and hug Harry, and be swallowed up by Molly Weasley's relieved embrace, just as much a part of the Weasley family as if she was dating Ron. To be happy and victorious with the people that she loved.

And then, later on when everyone was asleep, she would do what she always did now – slip downstairs into the cellar with two cups of hot chocolate. Draco would be awake; he was always sleepless on the nights Hermione was on a mission, and as she came down the stairs his eyes would be filled with relief still laced with lingering fear. They wouldn't say much except for a brief discussion about her tactics during the mission, and they wouldn't touch except for their hands when he took his hot chocolate from her, and maybe their feet under the table, but there was always something in those moments with him that made Hermione feel _safe_. Like the mission wasn't really over until she went to see Draco, and saw the fear in his eyes be usurped by relief at seeing her still alive.

Hermione heard a stifled whimper come from behind her and paused, caught Creevy's widened eyes. "It's all right, Colin. You'll do fine," she whispered and squeezed his skinny shoulder through his robe. Creevy gulped and nodded, but his thin face was peaked with terror.

He was far too young to be out here. But the Order had dragged out everyone they could spare for this mission. There were three more groups creeping toward the Voldemort-controlled town of Flannelfoot at this moment – each taking a point of the compass. Hermione was in North, and they and South were charged with getting into the Death Eater house where the documents were, neutralising the enemy within, and getting out with the documents. East and West had to keep the house contained; there were other residences in the town that billeted members of the swelling ranks of the Death Eaters, and as soon as the town was breached Caterwaul charms would alert the Death Eaters to the intruders.

They made it onto the rain-slick cobbled streets, the light of the street lamps shining reflected in the puddles, and as soon as their feet crossed the boundary of the Death Eater wards the Caterwaul charm went off. Hermione jumped and her palms started sweating, and Creevy nearly took off in a panic and bumped into the back of her, and she swore at him without thinking. "Sorry, Creevy," she apologised loud enough for him to hear over the racket the Caterwaul charm was making and the driving rain and howling wind, and then Ron waved a hand at her to hurry up, and Hermione was running, in his wake, wand at the ready. Creevy was by her side as their feet slipped and slid over the cobblestones, Cho flanking her on her left and Neville taking the rear. Hermione tossed her hood back to free up her peripheral vision, and when she caught sight of a front door opening as they ran past, she flung a stunner at the figure silhouetted in the doorway. If that was a Death Eater, they were disabled, and if it was an innocent civilian, they were probably safer stunned on the ground – out of reach of stray curses and hexes and the like.

They skidded around a corner, turning off Flannelfoot's main street and into a narrow cobbled street with an ornate sign reading 'Trifle Lane'. Hermione caught sight of a group of people jogging toward them from the other end of the street, and squinting through the rain recognised Lupin, leading a cluster of five Order members. "There's South!" She gasped breathlessly as she drew up even with Ron and he nodded sharply, shooting a _petrificus totalus_ at what could have been another innocent bystander. "Where's the house?" she panted, letting loose another stunner, "God, why won't people _stay inside?_" Ron barked a short laugh and pointed at the wood and stone house, yelling over the noise of the Caterwaul, "That's it!"

"Where are West and East? They should be here by now! We need the street blockaded!"

"Merlin's balls! They better not have cocked this up!" Ron waved frantically at Lupin who was just a couple of houses down now, his people bunched around him. "Lupin, where are East and West?" Ron roared over the Caterwaul. Lupin ran faster toward them, and Hermione could just make out his yelled words, "East has pinned down a houseful of new Death Eater recruits! West, I don't know!

Hermione swore and cast _incarcerous _at a Death Eater who stormed out of the house they were supposed to be raiding, in just a robe over shorts his wand raised and hair mussed from sleep. He flicked the binding spell away with a block and Hermione settled into her duelling stance, feet apart and shoulders back, "_Stupefy!_" The Death Eater dodged, coming along the garden path lumberingly, and behind him three more poured out the door. "Er, guys? Anyone else want to help me out with this?" Hermione cast a shielding spell and risked a look around her. "I'm here." Neville stepped up next to her, "_Petrificus totalus!_" Hermione ducked beneath her shields as the Death Eater sent an orange beam of light at either her or Neville as Neville's _petrificus totalus _missed.

"Jesus!" Hermione screamed and ducked behind the low stone wall that surrounded the house, dragging Neville down with her as more Death Eaters spilled out of the residence, unleashing a barrage of deadly spells. "_Diffindo!_" Hermione thought of Draco as she stuck her head up over the wall just long enough to cast the curse. A hand dragged her down by her robe just after she got the curse off, and a green beam of light sailed through where her head had just been. "Cho. Thanks." Hermione looked around, "What's happening?"

"East and West couldn't make it here. The town is swarming with Death Eaters. We clear the entrance, and then we go in while South keeps the street clear," Cho yelled succinctly, pausing halfway through to unleash several hexes at the Death Eaters advancing down the garden path and across the muddy lawn at their spot behind the wall.

Hermione was crouched and her knees were already protesting, her shoulder flaring with pain intermittently from the tension thrilling through her. She looked to Neville, squashed by her side and he grinned, rain soaking his face. The rain made it hard to see, running off her own forehead and collecting on her eyelashes, and Hermione cast a quick charm, and Neville followed suit. "Creevy, pay attention!" she told Colin Creevy who hadn't moved to cast it; crouching white-faced and dripping at Hermione's back, and when he did so she nodded and turned back to the house. Popped her head up above the wall and sent several disarming spells at the Death Eaters, who stood out in the open like they had no fear. Arrogant bastards.

"One!" A voice screamed over the rising storm and cracking of curses and Hermione thought it was Wood's voice, but she didn't care. What was important was that it meant one of the enemies was down. "_Stupefy!_" she cried, shying away from potentially fatal spells again, shooting up from behind the protection of the wall and hitting a short Death Eater and crumpling them to the ground. "One!" she yelled. Then, "_Expelliarmus!_" she yelped, and another Death Eater's wand flew from their hand, which meant they couldn't block the beam of dirty yellow light coming at them from another member of North; although they tried to dodge and instead of their chest it struck their arm. A wet line appeared on the Death Eater's robe sleeve and his – her? – arm just _fell_ away from their body, blood pumping from the wound and onto the wet grass.

Hermione ducked down as curses hurtled through the air toward her, slamming her back against the jagged stone wall. A cry escaped her lips, as her forgotten burn connected hard. She heard Creevy vomiting behind her, choking out, "His _arm_, Merlin his _arm_," because even though it had been the enemy it was still _awful_ and bile burned at the back of her own throat as she wondered if _that_ had been how it had happened when Draco had lost his hand. Just one curse, one slash, and…_gone._

"One!" The cry came and Hermione gulped. It didn't take long to bleed out from a wound like that. From her quick head count of the Death Eaters as they had poured out of the house, three down meant four left. Four Death Eaters against the six of them – if you counted Creevy which Hermione hardly did. _He shouldn't even be here._ North were yelling spells around her intermittently – whenever they got the chance to stick their heads up above the wall that provided at least some cover. Hermione took a breath to steady her nerves and in the rain-shattered glow the street lamps cast she could see South split into two groups, battling at either end of Trifle Lane, to keep it clear for North.

Hermione was standing up, a _repulso_ on her lips when suddenly the section of low wall she was behind _exploded_ out with a deafening grinding and crashing of rock. Everything _splintered_. Noise. Crushing force hitting her legs. The feeling of being hurled through the rain like a child's toy. _Keep hold of your wand, Hermione_, and her fist stayed locked tight around it even as her arms and agonised legs flailed at thin air.

_Thunk._

"_Hhhh_." Her breath was _shoved_ from her lungs as Hermione's body impacted an unforgiving surface. She choked and gasped for air, already trying to roll and scramble and claw her way to her feet. Her starving lungs burnt and she couldn't think properly, just _breathe get up fight breathe get up fight breathegetupfight._ She made it to her feet, swaying but _up_ and air finally ripped down her throat and filled her desperate lungs. Her hair had come out of its ponytail and hung straggling around her face, and something wet and warm trickled into her right eye, half blinding her. When Hermione took a stumbling step forward agony shot through her shins and knees, and she gritted her teeth and tried not to scream.

She needed to get back into the fight. They needed her.

Her robe was torn and tangling around her legs so she wrenched it off, looking around wildly, vision obscured by the blood in her eyes that she smeared away with one fist. She was halfway across the road, and she felt dizzy, a lump on the back of her head. She threw up, and then yelled, "North!" into the rain, staggering forward and whining at the pain that enveloped her legs. Then Neville's face loomed up at her. Blood coated the lower half of his face, his nose bent oddly. "Herbiode!" He yelled nasally, gripping her forearm as relief crossed his battered features. "_Episkey._" Hermione waved her wand automatically and Neville swore, hand going to his nose and then grinned at her through the blood, "Thank–"

"_Stupefy!_" Hermione interrupted, stunning a Death Eater who appeared in the rain down the street; he must have gotten past South. He fell and Neville cast a binding spell.

"Where's everyone?" Hermione ground out through clenched teeth; it felt like her back was on _fire_ again, and her legs were one bone-deep bruise, whimpers wrenched from her throat as she tottered on them. "Come on!" Neville slung Hermione's arm around his neck and half-dragged her back towards an intact section of wall outside the target house, she casting _protegos_ and _stupefys_ through her pain – missing most of her targets but at least keeping her and Neville somewhat protected. Behind the stone wall again Hermione started dragging up her jeans, Neville helping and pulling out the dittany when he realised what she was doing. Ron's white face looked over at Hermione – he crouched next to her, popping up to fling curses every few seconds.

"Death Eater reinforcements apparated into the house. Ron, Oliver and Cho have them pinned down," Neville gasped and Hermione nodded, wincing as her legs were exposed; already staining purple and blue from ankle to thigh. "Shit, 'Mione," Ron swore as he saw the injury and Hermione shoved his knee, "Focus on the battle, _Ronald_!" Dittany sorted her out enough to get back on her feet and rejoin the chaotic duelling, North's spells flashing into the house at the Death Eaters, who took cover beneath windows and behind the open front door. "Creevy! Oh god, Neville, where's _Creevy_?" He had been right behind her when the wall had exploded. "He got flung back near you; hit his head when he landed." Hermione's stomach lurched, and then Neville continued, "I marked him for the retrieval crew to grab him. He'll be fine."

Three Death Eaters fell; one tumbling out a window as Hermione's _incarcerous _hit him, one disembowelled in the doorway by Ron's curse, and another falling out of sight behind a window to a _diffindo_ that Cho roared. And then they were all running for the house, and Hermione's sneakers slid on the entrails in the doorway and she choked down bile and yelled, "_Repulso!_" at the Death Eater charging down the hall beside the stairs at North as they burst in. The spell flung him back like a rag doll, and Hermione imagined she could hear his bones crunch over the noises of battle, and the deafening claps of thunder as the sky outside roiled with the worsening storm.

She and Cho went up the stairs while the others held the foyer, their wands cutting and flashing with deadly spells. The upstairs hallway was empty and she and Cho flung the doors open with blasting spells, hoping to disable anyone who might come rushing out of a doorway. They found the study and burst in, catching a Death Eater rummaging through the drawers of an elegant old desk, another one standing nervous behind him. "_Stupefy!_" Hermione panted out and the Death Eater whisked the spell away like it was a pesky fly, still half-focused on hunting through the drawers. "_Reducto!_" Cho screamed but that too was batted into nothingness. "Take care of them," said the first Death Eater with a glare at the one huddled behind him, and his voice was low and elegant and like silk and cologne and _so bloody familiar_. Hermione's stomach lurched.

"_Malfoy_," Hermione snarled and he dropped a handful of scrolls into a thin, long box, the Death Eater behind him snarling curses and Hermione casting _protegos_ almost absently in response, eyes fixed on Lucius Malfoy. She knew that Cho was duelling the other Death Eater, and trusted the she could take care of herself; Hermione couldn't rip her eyes away from the masked face of Lucius Malfoy. "Miss Granger. A pleasure to see you."

"_Sectumsempra!_" His wand batted her hoarsely screamed curse away and he chuckled at her. Hermione's blood boiled. This was the man who had cut his own son's hand off. Who had maimed _Draco_. Hermione felt the sudden, bloodthirsty desire to tear Lucius Malfoy apart with her bare hands, to rend him into tiny pieces. "_Diffindo,_" he drawled, his intonations so eerily like and yet not-like Draco's, and Hermione cast a shield spell and dodged for good measure, legs screaming at her and heart lodged somewhere in her throat and _pounding_. She could hear Cho cry, "_Incendio!_" and Hermione noticed the other Death Eater as he screamed and erupted into flames, spinning on the spot and apparating away – probably to a lake somewhere. "Give me the documents, Malfoy." She looked coldly at him. Two against one, now. But Lucius didn't seem very threatened.

"How _is_ my dear boy? Did you kill him yet, or have you taken him in like a stray dog?" Lucius asked smoothly, wordlessly blocking Cho's barrage of attacks. Hermione stepped forward, wand pointed at his throat and shaking. The bastard. The _bastard_. "Don't you mean _how is your wife_?" Hermione goaded and Lucius' shoulders stiffened and his wand flicked, "_Diffindo!_" he sneered, anger suffusing his voice and Hermione ducked. "Do you really think it's wise to shelter a _snake_ in your midst, Miss Granger?"

"Your son is no danger to us. Not after what _you_ did to him!" Hermione yelled as she cast a wordless disarming spell and Cho glanced at Hermione, bewildered by the venom in Hermione's voice.

"Oh so he told you it was I, did he? How _interesting_," Lucius flung a series of wordless curses at Hermione and Cho and their _protegos _shuddered under the volley of multicoloured beams. "Ingratiating himself with _mudbloods _and blood traitors, is he? I see I did the right thing in cutting him off." Lucius chuckled again behind the mask as he made the pun, and Hermione shuddered. "Of course, he is still my _blood_ and _blood will out_, Miss Granger. I wouldn't turn my back on him, if I were _you_."

"Go to hell!" Hermione yelled and threw a curse that Lucius dodged as it splattered through his shield – the first one that had gotten through, and Hermione felt a burst of hope. They could get him, they _could_. Her blood rushed loud like the sea in her ears as she cast hexes and curses at him, side by side with Cho, and Lucius fell back a few paces.

"A rather _strong_ reaction, Miss Granger," Lucius' head tipped to one side within the hood, and Hermione clenched her jaw as she saw Cho flash her another quick, confused look. "I'm surprised. I always thought you despised Draco."

"He's not like you anymore! He doesn't believe in your cause, and _neither does your wife!_" It was a lie that Narcissa didn't believe in Voldemort's cause any longer but a good one – a lie designed to hurt Lucius, and hurt him it did. He recoiled for a second and then Hermione could _see_ him recover his equilibrium in the set of his shoulders and stance of his feet. "He'll always be my blood, Miss Granger. I may have disowned the runt, but I _made _him. _I made him_," Lucius sneered. "_Diffindo!_" Hermione yelled Lucius' favourite curse of the moment back at him, and Lucius dodged, laughing at her and batting away Cho's hexes. "He'll never be trustworthy, _mudblood_. Once a Death Eater always a Death Eater," Lucius purred.

"_Avada kedavra!_" The Unforgivable tore from Hermione's lips before she could think about it. It just…happened. Just wrenched up her throat and burst vicious past her bared teeth, as she thought _no, he's not, no he's not, Draco's changed, and he's not – not what Lucius says!_ She _meant_ the curse when she cast it. Meant it with every cell of her body, and Hermione's perception of the world slowed as the lance of green light shot toward Lucius. She wanted to take it back the moment she had set it free, imbued with all her hatred of the man who had _maimed_ Draco, who was trying to make her think Draco was still like _him_. Lucius twisted elegantly and the Unforgivable sailed right past him. Hermione stared, stunned. Half relieved, half just…stunned.

Lucius snarled, wand pointed at Hermione's abdomen and from his mouth came a curse that stained the air dark with its very utterance. Evil, twisted, _dark_ magic. Hermione started to say, "_Protego!_" but she had spoken a second too late and the curse was going to hit her. Hermione's heart stopped with fear, with the knowledge that this was it. It was over. She didn't want to leave them all. She didn't want to… Harry. Ron. Her parents. Molly Weasley. _Draco_, saying as Hermione started up the stairs, _"Try not to die," _the flippancy in his tone and words not masking the very real fear in his icy eyes and tense mouth. Hermione didn't want to die.

Then Cho's body slammed into hers and Hermione was on the ground with Cho half-crushing her and _screaming_ and the world sped up and the noise was _too much_ as Cho _screamed _and _screamed _and Lucius Malfoy spun on the spot and disapparated with a mocking salute.

"_Cho_! Cho, Cho, Cho!" Hermione scrambled up off the floor gasping her friend's name in a terrified babble, pushing Cho's body roughly off her onto her back on the carpet and Cho tried to choke back her cries of agony. Hermione's hands blindly traced Cho's face, arms, sides frantically, searching for the wound in a blind panic and then she looked down further and _saw it_. Couldn't help but see it even with the blood that seeped from the reopened cut into Hermione's eyes and fogged her vision. "Oh my god," Hermione gaped numbly, and then her hands went to work as she went onto autopilot, slipped into that state where she just did what needed to be done, emotions shutting down. If she didn't work fast then…

"What – what did he–" Cho choked out and then another twisted, animalistic wail broke from her throat and swallowed the rest of her question. Her chest shuddered with her breaths, and her fingers clawed at the carpet. Hermione knew what Cho was asking, and she didn't want to say. A flick of her wand transfigured a strip of cloth torn off Cho's robe into a proper tourniquet, and she jerked it tight around the injured girl's thigh. "Your leg," Hermione slurred out gaspingly through lips that felt cold and unresponsive. Why did Cho do it? It wasn't right. It was meant for _Hermione_. _Why did Cho do it?_ It should have been Hermione! Hermione's mind raced with blame and hate and terror and tears flowed pouringly down her cheeks as she said, "It's gone from beneath the knee," and thought to herself, _we didn't even get the plans._

This had all been for _nothing_.

# # #

Lucius' words kept ringing in Hermione's head. She thought them as she helped Tricia try and fail to reattach Cho's leg – the curse had destroyed the lower leg too much. Dark magic. She thought them as she showered in frigid water; the stinging cold both a punishment and a process of cleansing. She thought them as she stumbled downstairs to the dining room and sat with the rest of the Order members billeted at Godric's Hollow who had been on the mission. They sat in silence and tried to drink away their numb depression together. Tried to be glad they were still alive.

Neville sat at Hermione's right, and Ron at her left, and Harry across from her, and all Hermione could think as she soaked up the warmth of her friends presences, was, _he'll always be my blood_, and, _once a Death Eater always a Death Eater_. She told herself they weren't true, but the doubt Lucius had sowed in her mind wouldn't go away.

Lucius' evil bloody words circled around and around in her head like vultures, making her heart skitter and race. Hermione felt trembly and weak and nauseous. She must have looked worse even than the others, because Ron put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head, "No one died, 'Mione. That's a win." She laid her head against his shoulder and sipped at the Muggle vodka she had dug out of the cupboard – straight from the bottle, it burnt and seared and helped drive away the cold that had settled in her bones. "It should have been me," she croaked the words aloud and saw Harry's jaw clench from across the table. Harry hadn't been there tonight – had to keep the face of the Order safe – and Hermione knew how much it hurt him that he couldn't fight with her and Ron and all the others. "It should have been _me_," he muttered, green eyes sparking fire and pain at her.

"Well, I'm bloody glad it wasn't _me_," Dean muttered emphatically, and a chorus of weak laughter went around the people sitting at the table. It was that or cry, and for herself at least, Hermione had done enough crying as she'd helped Tricia try to heal Cho. She had felt guilty that half of those tears wept over Cho's unconscious body had been for Draco, and not for the girl on the bed.

Hermione had nearly killed Draco's father. That hadn't hit home until Hermione had settled down at the table with her bottle of liquor under Molly Weasley's sympathetic but worried gaze. Molly Weasley didn't like the way they drank these days, but she accepted it most nights. She understood even if she didn't quite approve, even if she worried and fretted. And so Hermione had sat down at the table between Neville and Ron, and unscrewed the bottle cap and thought about how she would have lived with herself if she had killed Lucius Malfoy.

Would she have felt bad about it? Would Draco have hated her for it? Lucius _was_ his father, despite everything. Would he be able to look her in the eye if she told him what his father had said – about Draco being untrustworthy? If she asked Draco if he was _truly_, _absolutely_ on her side, would his eyes be clear on hers as he answered? Lucius had put that poison in Hermione's thoughts, and now as much as she told herself that she _could_ trust Draco…there was the barest trace of _doubt_.

Lucius was a _snake_. Hermione _hated _him. Despised him. Her mind spun around and around. And it was _Lucius_ who had raised Draco, who had moulded and shaped him from birth. How much could a person change, really? And how much stayed the same? _Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater._

And that was what Draco had been.

Hermione _made_ herself think about what was on Draco's left arm – the one he always kept covered. The thing she didn't think about. The Dark Mark, marring his smooth, pale skin. Hermione gulped and shuddered as the booze slid icy and burning down her throat.

Later, Hermione would go down the cellar steps to see Draco, and he would look at her with gut-wrenching relief hidden behind flippancy, and she might tell him how she almost killed his father. Maybe she would even ask to see the Mark. Why? She didn't know. Maybe to punish herself, or him, with the truth of what he had been, and _once a Death Eater always a Death Eater_. Hermione didn't know anymore. Didn't know _anything_. She was half-drunk already, and exhausted, and her legs were still a mass of fading bruising and her back was killing her.

And she wanted to drink hot chocolate with Draco and be happy and safe, but Lucius – damn him – had reminded her what Draco had once been. And that was a hard image to drive out of her head. She wanted to trust him. But he had once been a part of the evil that had destroyed Cho's leg tonight. And not just a part of the group – it had been his _father_ who had nearly killed Hermione and Cho. Hermione knew she couldn't blame Draco for what his father did, but it was still… It was difficult to process that the man downstairs, the one who had held her while she slept, and played Scrabble with her even though he hated it, and worried about her when she was on missions, had that evil, awful _thing_ tattooed into his skin. Had, not so long ago, _wanted_ it there. Been _proud _of it.

How much could a person change?

"Hermione?" Harry's hand reached across the table and touched hers lightly. Hermione's voice was thick and clogged as she said, "To us." She lifted her bottle and looked around the table at her friends, her _family_. Sitting on the chairs and perched on the table edge and the floor, most with alcoholic drinks in hand and weariness carved into their features. She cleared her throat and said louder, "To us – we're still alive." And Ron was right – that counted as a victory, compared to what _could_ have happened tonight. It would do, for now. "Still alive." They chorused in return, smiling weakly at her from faces that were battered and drawn and hollow, and drank long and deep.

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_Author's Note: _So, not a huge amount of Draco/Hermione this chapter – but I will make up for it next chapter, I promise! Speaking of which, next chapter picks up immediately after this one, and Draco is visited by a drunk Hermione after her drinks with the Order members, and angsty, drama-y, and many other types of goodness occur :D


	14. Inside Your Lover's Head

_Author's Note: _Thank you as ever and always for all the wonderful reviews! You folks are the best!

This is a rather heavy chapter in my opinion (it was actually a little draining to write – but fun, as always), and as hinted at by the title (from the Stars song "Set Yourself on Fire), is entirely Hermione and Draco focused and relates an important tipping point in their relationship. It picks up later on in the night of the last chapter…

_Enjoy!_

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**Inside Your Lover's Head**

When the trapdoor creaked open late the night of Hermione's mission, Draco knew who it was. His hand shook as relief went fizzing through him and anticipation welled up. Who else would be coming down to see him this late at night, and on this night in particular? It had become their habit. She would bring him a hot chocolate, and they would sit and dissect the mission, go over what happened, what went wrong, how she could do better next time. It made Draco feel useful – like Hermione needed him. He smiled to himself. And there she was, coming down through the entrance with a bottle in each hand, a vision of wild hair and wholly practical jeans and jumper. She set the bottles slowly down on the third step from the top and eased the trapdoor shut behind her. "Hermione?" he called and she jumped at the sound of his voice and wobbled on the stairs, and for a sick moment Draco thought she was going to fall off and cursed the stupid bastard who had put in stairs that steep without any railings.

He was off the bed in an instant, The Godfather tumbling onto the floor forgotten as he hurried across the cellar and scrambled up the steps, swearing at her, "For fuck's sake, Hermione. What are you trying to do? Off yourself?" Then she nearly tipped over the edge again, grumbling, "Fuck you, Draco Malfoy!" He raised an eyebrow, half-worried, half just plain relieved to see her alive and well, and showing neither emotion as he snapped, "Merlin's fucking _balls_, woman, be careful!" She lifted her head and glared at Draco blearily as he stopped a few steps below her, and bent to pick up the bottles, lurching unsteadily. "Hermione – Hermione, are you _drunk_?" It would have been nearly comical but for the stricken look in her eyes, but Draco rambled on, grabbing her arm to steady her as she insisted on gathering up the bloody bottles of what he could see now was some sort of liquor – Muggle by the look of it. Her body was rigid and her hands trembled like she was ill, and worry snuck through him. What had happened out there? Draco had _known_ she shouldn't go on the bloody mission.

"Hermione Granger, _drunk_? Will wonders never cease?" His tone was dry as the Sahara, trying to lighten the mood, to calm her, but it wasn't working. "Let go of me, Malfoy. I'm not _drunk_, just…" Hermione enunciated carefully as she tried to tear her arm out of his firm grasp and they both tipped and swayed alarmingly and Draco swore. "Hermione, stop it, will you? I'm just trying to help. I'm not having you fall down the stairs." He tried to ignore the fact that she'd called him Malfoy, tried to pretend she wasn't glaring daggers at him. "Fine," she said sharply at last and tossed her head, let Draco walk her down the narrow steps leaning on his arm. She walked like she was old and frail, and winced with each step. "You're hurt," he stated the obvious, and Hermione nodded reluctantly. "How bad is it?"

"Just badly bruised," Hermione murmured and let out a moan of relief as Draco guided her onto a chair at the table. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up at the soft sound, and he tried to ignore the thrill it sent through him. He sat down opposite her, and she shoved one of the bottles across the table at him. "I couldn't be bothered with hot chocolate."

"Glacial Vodka?" Draco read the Muggle label curiously, unscrewed the cap and took a whiff of the clear liquid inside. It didn't smell like much. He sipped it, icy cold and strong, but without much actual flavour. He didn't like it as much as wizarding alcohol. He didn't tell Hermione that though – didn't want her biting his head off.

"On to drinking hard liquor, are we? That's a bit of a jump up from hot chocolate, isn't it?" Draco examined her face; weary and white, eyes dulled to a murky brown. "Not that I'm complaining." She said nothing, just stared at her bottle, drank from it with a shudder each time the alcohol slipped down her throat. Something very bad must have happened on the mission. Draco wondered if someone had died. If so it couldn't have been Potter, or Weasley –if it had been either of them Hermione wouldn't just be drunk, she would be in pieces. His mind ticked through all the ways the mission could have gone wrong, but he didn't say anything. Just waited until she was ready to talk.

Finally she spoke, like every word was a great effort. "The mission was a failure. As I'm sure you've guessed. The objective was to obtain some scrolls that contained the details of planned Death Eater movements over the next three months." Hermione took a sip of her drink. Pushed her hair back off her face and sighed, a long, defeated sound that made Draco want to do something – anything – to make her happy again. "We didn't get the scrolls."

"Did – did you lose anyone?" Draco asked hesitantly, fingernails scraping under the edge of the vodka label and slowly peeling it from the bottle. Hermione shook her head, "No. No one died." She paused and glanced across the table at him, and her brown eyes were desolate. Draco flinched. He had never seen her this defeated, this depressed before. She always seemed so…indomitable. She was the brave Gryffindor, never giving up – even in the face of terror and ridiculously bad odds. "Cho Chang – remember her from school?"

"Ravenclaw, right? Our year?"

"Yeah. Well…she lost her lower leg to a curse that y…" Hermione trailed off, eyes glued to the neck of her Muggle drink, idly pushing the bottle back and forth over the table between her hands. "Tricia couldn't reattach it or anything – the dark arts, you know. Destroyed…" She sounded so _tired_, and Draco wanted to just pull her away from the alcohol and lead her to his bed. Tuck her in and stroke her hair until she went to sleep. She needed rest, not booze. "Oh," he said instead, "Well. At least Cho is alive?"

"Mm. Ha. She wouldn't stop screaming. Not until she was given a sedative potion." Hermione blinked and Draco saw wetness well up in her bloodshot eyes, and a few tears spilled over, immediately dashed away by her sleeve. She met Draco's eyes and he didn't look away from the pain contained within them, "Before she fell asleep, she said…she said, 'I just don't want to be ugly.' In a voice like she was ashamed of being worried about something like that. She could have died and she was worried about being _ugly_. It's funny." Hermione laughed soft and choked and bitter, and Draco winced, acutely aware of the stump inside his right sleeve.

_Ugly_.

He had been more worried about being killed slowly and horribly at the time that he had lost his hand than not being found attractive, but… Draco wondered suddenly what Hermione thought of his arm. The stump. Fuck, that sounded awful – _the stump_. He wondered if Hermione thought it was ugly, just like Cho feared the loss of her leg would make _her_ ugly. "I never thought about it that way. About the ugliness, I mean."

"No, why would you? I mean…it's different for Cho."

"Maybe _I_ want y– people to find me attractive too." Draco swore in his head and tried to make that sound less like he was talking about Hermione. "I know we're in the middle of a war, and I'm a prisoner of said war, trapped in some damned stupid cellar, but…that doesn't mean that one day… One day. It would be nice, for example, not to have small children avert their eyes when they see me on the street."

Hermione actually smiled a little at that; the taut fragility of her face easing, and Draco felt ridiculously good for being the cause of that expression. "You're hardly hideous, Draco Malfoy, and you know that. Stop milking me for compliments. _Slytherin_." Draco grinned at her, "I'll take _that_ as a compliment." But the curve of her lips melted away after a moment, and she gazed off at the wall behind him, eyes far away and bottle coming back to her lips.

"What else happened?" Draco asked, clarifying, "I mean, I know Cho Chang losing her leg is hardly ideal, but…there have been comparable injuries on other missions, and you've never come down here drowning yourself in the bottle before."

"Maybe I've changed." She looked at him sharply, eyes refocusing on his face and he felt naked under her stare; like every inch of him was being scrutinised. He shrugged, prodding, "Could be, of course. Or it could be that something else happened that you haven't told me about yet."

"If that _was_ the case, then maybe I have a reason not to tell you," she replied curtly and Draco raised an eyebrow, concerned and a little hurt by the rebuff. "Why _wouldn't_ you tell me? You always tell me everything about the missions you go on."

"Like I said. Maybe I've changed." She smiled sadly, a twist of the mouth that Draco was more used to feeling on his own face than seeing on Hermione's. He worried about her. She wasn't like this, and Draco didn't like seeing her so melancholic. Maybe it was just the alcohol. Maybe Hermione Granger was a weepy drunk. The thought amused him slightly – better than a _mean_ drunk though. "Do you think people can really change?" Hermione asked him, and then dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. "Never mind. Obviously _you_ would think people could change."

"Yes, I would. I do. What's triggered all this talk about people and change?" Draco thought he might know what the problem was already; from what she had said and the way she was acting, but he wanted Hermione to say it herself.

"I don't know." Hermione canted her head to one side, elbows resting on the table as she gazed at Draco with the foggy stare of the well and truly blotto. "Well, I do. But I don't want to tell…"

"You can tell me anything, Hermione. You know that. Who am I going to tell?" Draco smirked a little, waving his hand to indicate the cellar, empty but for the two of them. She bit her lip. "I used the Killing Curse tonight." She blurted the words out, and Draco nodded slowly. So he had been right. "It's a war Hermione. And you were defending yourself, right?"

"Well…sort of. I mean – the Death Eater would have killed Cho and I, if he'd had the chance. He was the one who cursed Cho. Draco, he was…" She seemed confused, her voice lost and blank, and Draco felt immensely sorry for her. She was so bloody _noble _– the Death Eater would have killed her, and yet she felt bad about killing him first. "So it _was_ self-defence," Draco said, making the statement sound as matter-of-fact as he could. He didn't want Hermione believing she was a murderer; that would destroy her.

"He wasn't duelling me right when I cast it though. We were…talking."

"You were _talking_ to a Death Eater?" Draco felt his brow furrow in puzzlement.

"Cho and I caught him about to run with the scrolls, and…" Hermione's shoulders slumped and she seemed to crumple in on herself, full lower lip trembling as she took another long drink. Her hands trembled and the level in the bottle went down far too much. Draco grabbed the bottle, pulled it firmly away from her mouth. A wet sheen of the vodka glistened on her lips, and she shuddered as she swallowed the last of the liquor. Draco felt a hot rush of entirely inappropriate arousal as Hermione carelessly swiped a finger over her alcohol-wet lips, collecting the beaded moisture and then licking it off her digit. He told his wayward thoughts and body to behave as he set the bottle down on his side of the table, and said firmly, "You've had enough, Hermione."

"I have just tonight discovered that there is no such thing as _enough_ when it comes to alcohol," she shot back but the riposte lacked passion, her voice as dull as her eyes. "Wait until tomorrow before you decide on that. Come next morning, I have a feeling you may have changed your mind," Draco answered and gripped the bottle tightly as Hermione snagged the neck and tried to pull it back. "Malfoy!" she complained and Draco shook his head. "No. You're drunk already. You don't need to be drunker."

"Don't presume to tell me what to do!" she hissed and her voice was venomous as she yanked at the bottle fruitlessly. Draco held it up in the air by his side, out of her reach and Hermione's mouth flattened and her jaw clenched. "Give. It. Here."

"No," he said and Hermione growled and grabbed for Draco's bottle, and he was lucky he had a seeker's reflexes, shoving Hermione's drink between his legs and snatching his off the table out of reach. He shivered involuntarily and shifted in his seat. _Merlin_, the bloody bottle was cold, snugged right there against the family jewels. _Fuck._ Draco tried to ignore the slow freezing process occurring in his pants, "Tell me what's so bad about defending yourself that makes you want to drown yourself in piss, first."

"You have _no_ right to – to… _Ugh!_" Hermione gave up her attempts to regain the bottle and slumped back in her chair, rubbing her hands over her face. She looked so small and so sad, and Draco just wanted to make things better. Wipe away the weary disillusionment in the alcohol fumes surrounding Hermione by kissing her, making her forget everything but his mouth hot on hers. His skin on her skin. Heat and sweat and slick and breathlessness. But he couldn't, for so many different reasons – one being that Draco wasn't sure he would be physically able to carry out the act after the _bloody cold _bottle of vodka had finished trying to turn him into an iceblock. Instead Draco said, "Talk to me, Hermione. Tell me about it. I – I know it must be unpleasant to cast the Killing Curse, even when the person you're killing is your enemy, but…"

"That's right. You've never killed anyone, have you?" she asked, voice brittle, hands falling from her face. Her dull brown eyes all smeared beneath with the bruising of stress and sleeplessness pinned on his eyes, and he fidgeted. "No. I haven't."

"You weren't a very good Death Eater, were you, Malfoy?"

Draco froze. They never talked about that openly. And Hermione had just breached the unspoken wall in sharp, bitter tones. He felt at a total and utter loss. He couldn't get a read on her tonight – had no idea what she wanted to hear him say, what her problem was, why she seemed so very devastated by the mission. Cho's leg and the Killing Curse didn't – Draco eyed Hermione huddled fragile in her chair – didn't explain _that_. The wavering tears and the drinking herself to the bottom of a bottle, the way she was calling him _Malfoy_.

"I – I suppose not. I mean, I'm _here_, aren't I?" Draco held up his right arm, "Also, I don't think chopping off someone's hand is a sign of favour, no matter what Wormtail might like to delude himself with."

"Do you think you've changed?"

"I do." Draco said the next words before he could lose his nerve and bite them back, "Do _you_ think I've changed?" There was a short, pregnant silence. Then,

"The Death Eater I cast the Killing Curse at. It was your father, Malfoy."

Draco's world spun and his stomach lurched in protest. His hand went to the table to steady himself and the bottle of vodka fell clattering on it and rolled away, released from his hand as he flattened it _hard_ on the table for balance. His father was…_dead?_ Hermione, _Hermione Granger_ of all people, had been the one to kill Draco's father? The girl he couldn't deny that he had come to care about had killed his father. _What._ _What? _What kind of sick fucking joke was the world playing on him?

His father was dead. It took a long moment to process that thought. His father was dead. His mother would be broken, _devastated_. Draco was… Fuck, Draco didn't know _what_ he was. Devastated. Relieved. Horrified. Sad. Viciously satisfied. About to cry. Remembering back to his childhood when he had mostly just loved his father with that uncomplicated adoration children have. Shaking all over and feeling like he wanted to vomit in his own lap? Yeah, mostly that last one.

"He dodged it," Hermione said conversationally, and Draco's eyes flew wide open and he imagined he could feel the blood drain from his face, breath stuck in his throat.

"_What?_" Draco looked up at Hermione. She was watching him emotionlessly, as if she was just calmly studying his reaction to her false implication that she had _killed_ his _father_. Like he was some sort of _research project_ or ancient text she was translating. The bottle he had let fall to the table in his stunned reaction was now clasped in her hand, and as he watched she took a swig from it. Bitch.

"_What the FUCK, Hermione?_" Draco gasped in a wrenching breath and tried to resist the urge to scramble across the table and see if one-handed choking did the job as well as two-handed. "Why the _hell_ did you try to – you fucking – make me think – _dead?_"

"You don't want him to die. I saw it on your face… _He made you_." She said almost dreamily and Draco's fingers flexed. She was fucking blitzed, and she obviously wasn't thinking straight. Whatever had happened tonight must have… Draco didn't know why she was acting like this, but he tried not to blame Hermione for messing with his head like that. Tried really fucking hard. "What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?" he said in a more normal tone of voice, his heart still rattling in his chest, the feeling that he had drunk ten Pepper-Up potions in as many minutes still fizzing in his blood.

""How much can a person change?" she asked again, and Draco swore vehemently, "You're questioning whether I've changed or not because I was upset that my father died?"

"I don't know! Maybe. I don't understand why you'd be so…you looked like I'd stabbed you when I told you it was him I tried to curse, and –"

"Of course I was upset! He's my father, Herm–"

"He's a _monster_, Draco." Hermione interrupted forcefully, saying his name at last and the sound of it on her lips was _so good_, no matter how frustrated and confused and pissed off Draco might be with her. She continued, "He's _evil_. He cut off your–"

"He's my _father_! He still tucked me into bed at night, and took care of me, and praised me when I did–"

"Took care of you? He _maimed_ you! How can you still care about him after everything he's –"

They were standing now, screaming at each other across the table, and Hermione's hair was wild around her face and she gesticulated angrily with her bottle of vodka, Draco's having fallen to the floor with a thunk as he'd stood.

"–Loved me! And I still love him for who he was to me when I was a child, but that _doesn't _mean I haven't change–"

"That's _shite_, Draco! Your father turned an innocent baby into a bigoted, _horrible_ prat of a boy, and then made that boy become slave to a Dark Wizard, and–"

"My father didn't _make_ me join the Dark Lord! Father was in Azkaban! I did it because I _wanted_ to!"

Silence fell.

Draco shut his eyes and wished very hard that he hadn't said that.

"You _wanted_ to?" Hermione's voice was small and distant, and Draco couldn't bear to look at her. "Yes. I suppose you did at the time. Silly me. I forget these days that – you – I just can't imagine you ever wanting – I always thought maybe Voldemort forced you to, but…I guess…"

Draco licked his lips, making himself open his eyes and look at Hermione's crumpled face. She looked like Draco had just offered her ten thousand galleons and then thrown them in the sea, or burnt down a library, or murdered her damned cat, or _something_, her misery was so complete. He tried to explain, to take that misery from her because it wasn't _her_ misery, and she didn't deserve to have to carry it. She shouldn't be disappointed in his reasons for joining the Death Eaters – she didn't have the right. He had _hated_ her then – it had nothing to do with her. Why was she so damned disappointed? Why was he so ashamed? Well, that was obvious at least.

"It – I didn't mean it like _that_. Well, not exactly. I mean, I _did_ want to," Fuck that was hard to admit with Hermione looking at him with that irrational disappointment in her eyes. She had _known_ him then, known what he had been like up until just recently. Was she really so surprised? "But it happened when it did – when I was so young, I mean, because the Dark– _Voldemort_ was angry with father for failing him, and I was…an appeasement, I suppose. A sacrifice." Draco fell silent and looked down. Saw the bottle of vodka where it had fallen at his feet and picked it up – the lid had been half screwed on so not too much liquid had leaked out and Draco took the cap off awkwardly. Sat down and took a drink. He bloody needed it.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly and Draco had no idea what exactly she was apologising for, but he took the apology with a shrug and a nod. "I'm sorry too." He didn't know what he was apologising for either. The argument? Disappointing her in the present by having joined the Death Eaters long ago when he had despised her? Loving his father?

"Why, Hermione?"

"For…for everything, I guess. I'm sorry I–" Hermione stumbled over the words, sitting down herself and tucking her hair behind her ears, staring at the vodka bottle like it held the answers to life itself within it. Maybe it did, if you drank enough.

"No, I mean why have you got this all in your head right now? Is it just because you _saw_ my father…or did he say something to you?"

"Why? What are you worried he might have said?" she asked sharply, and Draco sighed, tired and frustrated with this round and round of doubt and mistrust. "Nothing in particular. He's just…he likes to muck with people's heads. He likes to plant doubts and turn people against each other. To use peoples' own insecurities and weakness against them." Draco shrugged, "He likes to make people destroy themselves – destroy each other – without him having to really lift a finger. He says it's more _elegant_ that way."

"Oh." The sound was small and oddly glad, and Draco stared at Hermione as she kept staring at the vodka bottle. He wished his father was anyone but who he was. Even Voldemort would be easier to have as a father, in a way, because at least then Draco didn't think he'd have these lingering feelings of love and loyalty. "What did he say?" Draco asked, regretting the question even as he asked it. Did he really want to know?

Hermione looked up at the air above Draco's head, eyes sliding to the side as she thought, that little vertical crease appearing between her brows, as it always did when she was angry or concentrating. Draco saw it every time they played Risk, as she furrowed her forehead, dragged her fingers through her hair, bunched up her mouth; desperately trying to think of a way to best him.

"I don't really remember it word for word. You'll understand, I'm sure, that I was a bit distracted at the time." She was cutting, and Draco winced and took a swig from the bottle of vodka that he really _shouldn't _have taken, but he needed the grounding burn of the liquor. "Don't be flippant right now, Hermione. Please," he said quietly and Hermione made a noise of anger and frustration and tugged at her hair. Just like during their games. Draco really wanted to play those with her again. He didn't want his father coming between whatever the fuck it was he had with Hermione. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm – I'm not good for anything but bed right now to be honest," she apologised.

_Oh._ He couldn't help thinking about the innuendo, and from the look on her face, Hermione was realising as well. She blushed bright red. "Bed, hmm?" Draco let a smirk flicker on his mouth, and Hermione went even redder. "You know _perfectly_ well what I mean."

"Do I?"

"_Yes_," she snapped without real anger and her foot poked his under the table sharply, and then in the next breath she said, "Your father told me two things that I remember perfectly." And just like that the tiny reprieve from the crisis at hand was gone. Draco schooled his face to calmness and listened reluctantly. "The first was, almost word for word, 'he's still my _blood_ and _blood will out_… I wouldn't turn my back on him, were I _you_.' And the other one was," She nibbled on a fingernail for a second and then nodded vigorously, "That's it. How could I forget?" Hermione chuckled bitterly and Draco realised how much he hated hearing her sound like that – it didn't seem right.

"Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater," she said, and Draco saw the way her eyes went to his left forearm, to the Mark hidden by his sleeve. "That's not true," he said automatically.

"Isn't it? Snape went back to Voldemort, didn't he?"

"Karkaroff."

"All right. One; I'll give you that. But why should I really, truly trust that you've turned your back on everything your father made you into? Your whole life you were raised to be the sort of person who would follow someone like Voldemort. You were raised to be a bigot, a blood purist, and a horrible, arrogant prat. So why now, _now_, have you changed? How is it that in just a few short months you have rejected everything you once believed in heart and soul, to come over to our side?"

"Because it was wrong." His foot brushed against Hermione's, tickling and prodding, and she jumped a little in her chair and shot him a dark glare. "What? Just like that?" she asked disbelievingly.

"No, not just like that. I've been changing for a long time now. Ever since the – the tower," Draco admitted. Sometimes he felt like Dumbledore had done the same thing for Draco that Potter's mother had done for him in a way – sacrificed himself for Draco. In the moment Draco hadn't thought anything of it, too hopped up on fear and adrenaline, but later on he had wondered why, even ill and tired, Dumbledore had been so _easy_ to disarm. It was almost like…he had done it on purpose. Why, Draco didn't know, but it seemed like the sort of thing the old wizard would do.

"You didn't kill him."

"No. I didn't. He – he let me disarm him. Oh I thought I was so fucking clever at the time, beating Dumbledore. And then when it came down to it…he was so _old_ and _tired_, and so fucking _kind_, and I…I couldn't do it." Draco buried his face in the palm of his hand, and the last words came out muffled. He had never told anyone this before. "It started then. I was young, and I was stupid, and like you said, father…father raised me to hate. I was eager to join the ranks of the Death Eaters. Scared, but I wanted to." He looked up. "But then I realised I'd gotten in over my head. I was drowning, and there was no one to pull me out, so I just…held my breath."

"I wouldn't have, I would have gone to the Order or – or _something_, as soon as I realised what I was doing was wrong," Hermione said almost defiantly, although Draco could see at least some sympathy in her eyes. "Yes, I know you would have," he said miserably, "And that's why you were Sorted into Gryffindor and I was Sorted into Slytherin. You go charging merrily off in the face of certain death, remember?"

"When did you realise you wanted to leave?"

"When did this become an interrogation?" Draco asked dryly, and Hermione's gaze was unblinking on his, "Since the moment I came down here." Draco raised an eyebrow. Hermione certainly wasn't pulling any punches. But maybe, in a way this was a good thing. Get it all out in the open. Lay everything bare. "When the Snatchers brought in you and Potter and the Weasel."

"I'll have you know, that despite his not _entirely_ irrational hatred of _you_, Ron is a good man, and I don't like it when my friends mock each other," Hermione said clearly, and then sipped at her vodka, watching him intently. Draco was tired, and he had drunk too much, and it took him a minute to understand the implications of what she had said. "I think I can stand calling him Weasley, in that case." They smiled at each other, and Draco felt warm inside. Merlin, she was certainly something. Blunt, noble, know-it-all Granger. _Hermione._

"When?" she asked and Draco picked up on Hermione's train of thought easily, "Because as much as I hated the three of you…you were at school with me. Even Potter and Weasley didn't deserve to be locked up, or tortured, or killed. And then when I watched while Aunt Bella tortured you, I realised I just couldn't do it anymore. It was a tipping point. That's why I let you go." Draco swallowed, thinking of all that had come after, resulting eventually in the loss of his hand, and his escape with his mother and arrival at this place. Hermione got up, shoving her chair back and setting the bottle of vodka down on the table. "But you _were _a Death Eater."

"I was."

"Can I see it?"

Draco groaned. He didn't want her to see it. He didn't want to. He hated the Mark now, hated everything it represented, hated the way he could never, ever be rid of it. Both his arms were ruined, in one way or the other. He wished he could erase it from his skin, but that wasn't an option; it was irremovable, unless he wanted to remove it by chopping off his only remaining arm, and Draco wasn't quite that desperate. All he could hope for was that Voldemort would be defeated and it would fade somewhat.

He didn't want Hermione to see it; with the inevitable revulsion and aversion it would evoke in her. Draco wanted Hermione to like him, not be disgusted by him. _He didn't want to show her._ "Yes. You can see it if you want," came out of his mouth. "But I don't know why you'd want to. You know what it looks like already. It doesn't look any different for being on _my_ arm, I can assure you." But Hermione was already coming around the table, and he watched wordlessly as she crouched down by his side to see his still-covered arm better, wobbling from the amount of vodka she'd downed. "That's just…" Draco felt awkward with Hermione down _there_, all but on her knees by his Mark. "Here." He stood and pulled her to her feet. "Thanks," she muttered nervously and wiped her palms on her jeans.

"Look then, if you bloody have to."

"I just want– _need_ to see it."

"So go on then," Draco half-snapped, holding his arm out with his heart crackling in his chest, and Hermione's fingers went to his sleeve, fingertips brushing his hand and wrist and sending warm thrills through his skin. She peeled his sleeve up slowly and Draco wanted to pull his arm away, wanted to swear, wanted to tell her to just bloody get it over with, but he kept his fragile composure and stared down at her bowed head with cool grey eyes. Hermione didn't react all that much when the first part was revealed – the snake's head. There was just a little pause in her slow sliding up of his sleeve, and a slight hitch in her breath. And then it was all there, exposed; the macabre skull with the serpent slithering from its mouth. Voldemort's Dark Mark.

"Can I – can I touch it?" Hermione's voice was strained and nervous, and Draco squeezed his eyes tightly shut for a second. "Why the hell would you _want _to?"

"Can I?"

"You _can_, yes." Draco grated out reluctantly, and then her slender fingers – the knuckles of her hand a little bruised, no doubt from the mission earlier – were sliding over the Mark. It felt strange, very strange. And then Hermione looked up at him with those brown eyes, tired and dulled and hazed with alcohol, and asked, "Can I trust you when you say you've changed?"

"You could give me _Veritaserum_ if you want to be sure," Draco answered defensively and Hermione frowned. "There are ways around _that_, don't think I don't know that," she said, ever the practical know-it-all, "And now _you're _the one being flippant, Draco." He sighed and pointed out, with her fingers still warm and soft as they traced over his Mark, "You already trust me." Hermione looked up, startled, "What?"

"You assume my answer to your posed question will be truthful. That's trust right there."

"Good point," Hermione acknowledged, and her fingers splayed out over the Mark, her hand running lightly from the top of the skull to the snake's head. "Your father is a liar," she said absently, fingers still _caressing _the Mark with detached curiosity, then, "I wonder if there's any way to remove this." She didn't sound like she wondered because she was terribly repulsed. Just because she was Hermione Granger, and she had to know, and solve, every damned puzzle the world held.

# # #

_Author's Note: _So, what do you think? Did you enjoy? Rather heavy I think, as I said in the above author's note – and certainly fecking intense to write, all that arguing and such, but I think it was necessary for their relationship to begin developing to the next level. I think openness, trust and respect in a relationship are important, and this I felt was a good way to begin bringing that to Draco and Hermione's developing relationship.

Please feed me with your feedback, I do love it so :D

Oh, you'll also notice how Hermione neatly let Draco just _assume_ that when she cast the Killing Curse it resulted in death? She must be picking up Slytherin qualities from him :p


	15. Wake Up

_Author's Note:_ Thank you, thank you to all the wonderful, amazing people who leave reviews! I appreciate it so much :D And also, thank you to those who favourite and follow – you are all wonderful people too!

I have been struggling with _the worst_ writer's block ever *bangs head on desk repeatedly* Plus RL has been busy and distracting :( The end result is that my writing just hasn't been flowing the way it usually does…I'm also at a point where the story is transitioning so to speak, and it just does _not_ want to be written (stupid brain).

So I really, really hope that this chapter is up to scratch, and I especially hope you all,

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Wake Up**_

Hermione felt pleasantly drowsy and warm, and she instinctively snuggled closer into the firm body pressed against her right side. Draco made a small surprised sound and then his arm wrapped around her shoulders, and she let her head fall against his chest. They both sat across his bed, leaning on the wall, Hermione's feet and half Draco's long legs dangling off the edge. Hermione still clutched her bottle of vodka, which was now just barely two-thirds full. Her body felt both heavy and light at the same time. It was as if her limbs were encased in lead, but she was floating free of them. Being horrendously drunk appeared to be a most unsettling, but nevertheless rather pleasant sensation.

"Hermione? Are you still awake?" Draco asked, squeezing her upper arm awkwardly with his hand and she nodded her head against his chest. "Maybe you should go… You don't want to fall asleep down here again," he said as though the words had to be dragged out of him against his will, arm hot around her. Hermione smiled dreamily and shrugged against the weight of Draco's arm, "I don't mind." He snorted, "That's just the enormous amount of drink you've imbibed, Granger. What if it was your precious Potter who came down in the morning and caught you in my bed?" Hermione's stomach flipped deliciously as she thought of waking in Draco's bed, but this time curled up in his arms instead of alone like last time. "I don't care," she said and meant it, her mind swimming with visions of her body entwined with Draco's, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as his hand ghosted over her naked back. "You'd care, Hermione." Draco's voice was quiet and sad, and Hermione sighed, her left hand reaching up tentatively, fingers twining with Draco's.

He made another little sound of surprise and his body tensed, then Hermione's thumb stroked over his and the tension ran out of him. "You smell good," she said drowsily, and Draco chuckled, "I _what_?" Hermione flushed. Had she said that out loud? "Never mind." She buried her cheek into his chest and listened to his heart thudding. There was a long companionable silence, only broken by the quiet sound of Hermione sipping occasionally at her vodka. "You really should stop drinking, Hermione," Draco said as he half-squashed her in order to hypocritically snag her bottle with his only hand, and bring it to his lips. "I know. But tonight I'm not going to care about _shoulds_ or _shouldn'ts_. I'm taking a well-deserved night off from being the always responsible Hermione Granger." She paused, thinking about all that had transpired since she had left for the mission early in the evening. The events that drink could only dull, and not wipe away. "I need it. I really, _really_ need it."

"I'm sorry about my father. What he said to you. What he did to Cho Chang."

"You aren't responsible for what your father does, Draco." Hermione tried to reassure him, words falling slurred and jumbled from her mouth. She thought about Lucius and Cho, and the curse that should have struck Hermione. Instead Cho lay upstairs with half her leg missing, wondering if she would still be pretty. "It should have been me." Hermione felt Draco shift and knew he was looking down at the top of her head. "I thought you weren't doing _shoulds_ tonight. And _what_ should have been you?" Hermione grabbed the bottle back off him; she was enjoying this drinking thing. There was an odd, sad peace in this complete and utter intoxication. "Cho's leg. Luc – your father was aiming at me. He would have hit me dead on," Hermione's hand went to her stomach, "But Cho threw herself at me, tried to push me out of the way, and so she lost her leg because of _me_." Hermione felt tears well up and examined the level of liquid in the bottle, wondering if she was starting to reach some sort of melancholic stage of inebriation.

"Not because of you – because of my father," Draco corrected Hermione firmly, shifting again so that he could run his fingers through her hair. It was unexpected, but welcome. It must have been the drunkenness that made Hermione moan softly with pleasure at the feel of Draco's fingers scraping lightly over her scalp, and the drunkenness that stopped her from feeling embarrassed as the small sound slipped from her lips. "I'm glad she did push you out of the way. I'm glad she lost her leg," Draco continued, fingers carding through her hair so relaxingly that Hermione felt like she was melting into him. "That's a dreadful thing to say," Hermione said but his caresses took the intended indignation out of her voice. "No it's not. If she hadn't taken the curse, you'd be dead Hermione. This way, Cho lost her leg, yes, but you're both _alive_."

"Slytherin," Hermione accused and then another little mew escaped as Draco scritched behind her ear. She felt like an oversized Crookshanks, nuzzling into his touch, shivers of drunken delight fizzing through her. She missed Crooks. "I wonder if Cho will regret it. If she'll look at me with my two legs and resent me."

"Maybe."

"That's not very reassuring! You're supposed to – to…"

"Lie to you?"

"Make me feel better!" Hermione poked Draco in the stomach playfully with one finger and then bit her lip, surprised at her own boldness. She blamed the alcohol.

"She might resent you for a while, Hermione, but that's natural. It'll fade once she gets over the shock of losing a leg, and can think rationally about it. Of course," Draco added, "She _is_ a Ravenclaw. So she probably realises even now that her choice was the logical one. Or she wouldn't have done it. She's not some Gryffindor who throws herself into dangerous situations without weighing them up first."

Hermione nuzzled her head further into Draco's lazy touch without even thinking about it, shivering as she sipped at the vodka. "Surprisingly, that _did_ make me feel better."

"See? Logic is far more useful than meaningless platitudes."

"Slytherin," Hermione teased and then just sat for a while, her eyelids feeling heavy, and her whole body limply relaxed into Draco's. It was nice. She wasn't over thinking things, she was just…enjoying. No thoughts about what it meant to be curled up against Draco like this. No analysing or worrying about what it meant to be snuggled up to _Draco Malfoy_, old school nemesis and ex-Death Eater. There was only the pleasure of his fingers threading through Hermione's wild hair and carefully untangling the knots, and the oddly _right_ comfort of his company.

"Do – do you think it's disgusting?" Draco asked out of nowhere, burying his face in Hermione's hair so that the question came out muffled. Hermione frowned, "What?"

"Ch – Cho's leg. My – earlier when we were arguing you said…" Draco trailed off and Hermione pulled awkwardly away from him, wedging the vodka bottle between her thighs and looking up at Draco's face. His eyes were shut and as Hermione watched him Draco let his head fall back against the wall and opened them. He watched her silently, the light throwing shadows over his face and turning his eyes dark, highlighting the bruised stains of stress beneath them. "What?" she asked dumbly, ad was acutely aware of the way her lips moved as she spoke, the world tilting and swaying around her, vision slightly blurred. She blinked like an owl, glazed and wide-eyed and Draco's mouth curved into a slow, faint smile. Hermione blushed. She had never been anywhere _near_ this drunk in her life, and she just _knew_ she looked ridiculous.

"What did I say?"

"That I was maimed," Draco said and his eyes slipped down to look at the stump concealed inside his sleeve. He thought that Hermione thought it made him ugly, she figured dazedly, the vodka clouding her brain. Ugly, just like Cho had worried she was ugly. Hermione shook her head hard and the room spun like a top and her stomach lurched protestingly. "I didn't mean it like that," she said helplessly, knowing that Draco wouldn't believe her. He would think she was just being _nice_, but in all honesty, Hermione _didn't_ care. She felt sympathy for him, empathy over the loss, but it didn't repulse her. _Obviously_, Hermione thought with her mind on the thrills and jolts that ran through her deliciously whenever Draco touched her, and she tried not to smile. He would take the expression the wrong way. His eyes stayed glued to his arm, and his teeth nibbled delicately at his full bottom lip. Hermione got the strangest urge to kiss it, suck on it, nibble at it with her own teeth. She told herself it was the vodka talking, and she most certainly was _not_ going to kiss him while she was fall-down drunk.

"Honestly," Hermione insisted with the over-earnest sincerity of the utterly wasted, twisting further around and nearly losing her balance and falling face first into his chest. She only saved herself by planting a hand on his thigh. She froze, feeling the warm skin and hard muscle under his jeans, feeling arousal coil in her belly. They both looked down at her hand, splayed dangerously high up on his thigh, and then at each other. Hermione gulped, feeling dizzy. "Honestly," she repeated, "You hand…it's not important. Well, I mean it _is_ important," she corrected, "To you, obviously. But…I don't…" Hermione shifted her grip on Draco's leg as she clumsily pushed herself back up and a thrill tumbled through her as he hissed in a tiny breath.

Hermione's face was flaming hot and she tried and failed to enunciate clearly as she asked, "Why would I care about your…hand? I mean…" Draco swallowed and cleared his throat before he answered her. "It's not exactly attractive, Hermione. I _do_ realise that."

"You, um, want me to find you attractive?" Hermione's voice came out in a squeak and she flinched at how stupid she sounded, looked down at her hands, clutched around the neck of the bottle as she sat cross-legged with her knees snugged against Draco's left leg. She shouldn't have said that, she really shouldn't. Oh god. There was a short, total silence. "Um," Draco said at last, sounding totally at sea, not a shred of composure left. His hand snagged the vodka bottle, and Hermione looked up and grinned weakly as he took a long drink. "Dutch courage?" she asked and he raised an eyebrow, "Huh?"

"Oh, never mind. It's just a Muggle saying." She twisted her fingers around and around each other in her lap, waiting expectantly for him to say the words that might break the stalemate between them. Both of them too frightened and bewildered to come out and say that there was _something_ between them. And it was a _something_ that Hermione knew both of them wanted to…investigate. But she was barely able to admit having _feelings_ to herself, even while drunk. There was no way she would be able to say them out loud to Draco. No, it was up to him to broach the subject. "I wouldn't ah, mind. I mean I wouldn't want you to find me, ah, _hideous_ to look at. Bad for the ego," Draco stumbled out and Hermione's heart sank. He'd adroitly dodged saying anything definite, and the stalemate was still in effect. She was half-relieved, half-disappointed.

"I'm not a shallow person. And I'm offended you'd think I was," Hermione mumbled at last, toeing the line of admitting to feeling that indefinable _something_, her eyes flicking to his, searching out the telltale signs of fear and vulnerability hidden imperfectly behind his façade. "Things like that don't matter to me in the slightest. You could lose both legs, and I still wouldn't think you were, ah, _unattractive_. I'm _not_ shallow." She nibbled on the end of her tongue and her eyes dropped to the bed. "No, you're Hermione Granger," Draco said softly, words slurring a bit. His hand reached out and pushed a wayward fall of hair off her face, and Hermione held her breath as his fingers brushed against her cheek for a brief second. Like silk and fire and the shock of static electricity. "Campaigner for all that is right and good in the world," he added with a laugh in his voice and Hermione nodded, his words reminding her of something lurking at the edges of her drunken thoughts.

"Speaking of which," she said, "I was thinking about trying to get you out of here…" The fragile tension between them was broken at her more matter-of-fact words, and Draco lifted an eyebrow, interest sparking on his face. "What, out of this hellhole people keep trying to convince me is a cellar?" Hermione smiled, "Indeed."

"Well, fuck, Hermione. If you think you can get me out, feel free to try. But I won't hold my breath that you'll succeed. Potter seems rather insistent on keeping me locked up down here, and no one else in the Order has any reason to make my life more pleasant. In fact, I'd wager they want to make me as _miserable_ as possible." Draco shrugged flippantly, "They hate me. Why would they want to treat me with any dignity or respect at all?" Hermione didn't know what to say in the face of his bitter cynicism. The worst of it was, he was probably right. "They should want to because it's the right thing to do," she tried, and Draco bit back a sarcastic laugh. "They're good people, Draco. They're my friends – more than that; they're my only family right now," she defended them, and Draco just looked at her, as if wondering how she managed to be so naïve. Hermione didn't like that look on his face. It made him into someone else. "You'll see," she insisted, "They just need someone to…remind them of what's fair."

Draco didn't disagree, but there was a knowing smile playing about his lips that through her vodka-blurred eyes made him seem suddenly very cold and distant.

# # #

Hermione's head pounded and ached, and her eyes refused to focus properly as she walked _slowly_ down the upstairs hallway, careful not to aggravate the massive hangover she was currently suffering. Draco had been right. Drinking was undeniably not worth the immense horror of the morning after. And to top it off, they had run out of headache potions in stock. Hermione had cast a few charms to ease the pain, but only a potion could clear it up completely. She was _not_ in a good mood this morning, and no one had better cross her, or they would suffer the wrath of a hung-over Hermione Granger. Probably, she estimated, at least ten times worse than an ordinarily irritated Hermione. "Ugh." She mumbled and rubbed her hand over her eyes, mouth still feeling like it had been stuffed full of cotton balls despite the enormous quantities of water she had drunk at breakfast. "Never again…" she groaned to herself.

She stopped outside Harry's room, and had just lifted her hand to knock – the door may have been left ajar, but as Hermione and Ron had unfortunately learnt several days ago, the door being ajar did _not _stop Harry and Ginny from being all over each other. They snogged every chance they got and while Hermione couldn't blame them for doing so, Harry could _at least _lock his door so Hermione and Ron didn't suffer the awful trauma of seeing Harry and Ginny _go at it_. Hermione shuddered at the memory and was about to knock, when Ron's voice came through the crack in the door, "She was down there again last night. She didn't come back up until just before dawn, and she was so pissed she could barely _stand_. I don't bloody like it." Hermione pursed her lips and irritation settled on her face. She'd bet her entire savings account at Gringotts that Ron was talking about _her_.

Hermione edged closer to the almost-shut door and listened. Her mother had always repeated that old saying that an eavesdropper never hears any good of themselves, but in regards to her…relationship or _whatever_ it was…with Draco Malfoy, Hermione wasn't _expecting_ to hear any good. "None of us like it, Ron." That was Harry's weary voice, trying to placate Ron – who wasn't having any of it. "It's bloody weird, that's what it is. Malfoy! She's choosing to spend time with _that_ prat instead of us. I'm telling you, there's something wrong with the world when 'Mione would rather be around that evil git than her own friends." Ron sounded whiney for the first time in weeks, and Hermione tucked her tongue into her cheek and glared at the door.

"You know Hermione. She's probably hoping she can redeem him or something, yeah?" Hermione itched to grab Harry's ear and give it a well-deserved twist. How dare he think he knew why Hermione was spending time with Draco? She pushed back the annoyance and focused on the words drifting out the open door. "Lost cause if you ask me," Ron answered Harry and laughed and Hermione's hands screwed up into fists. Ron didn't know anything about Draco – and if he'd bothered to even slightly get to know who Draco was now, he would realise the Slytherin was no longer the same person he had been some months ago. "I don't think so. I don't think he's a cause, _or_ lost. After all, he left you-know-who, didn't he?" Luna spoke up, and Ron snorted, "Only because they turned on him!"

"I hate to…_ugh_, defend Malfoy, but there was a reason they turned on him, Ron." Harry pointed out and Hermione could picture Ron's dismissive shrug as he said, "Because he's too pathetic to even be a Death Eater?" There was a short silence, and Hermione was about to burst into the room and glare at Harry and Ron disapprovingly, and give them a stern lecture on poking their noses into her business, and assuming things about people they didn't know, when Ron added, "Okay. Okay. So he left. He's not outright evil anymore. Hooray! But that doesn't mean I have to like or trust the git."

"Remus said when he used the _veritaserum_ on Malfoy last week when we got in the new stock, that Malfoy wasn't loyal to Voldemort or his cause any longer. So unfortunately, we do have to trust him a bit, Ron." Harry said and Hermione's mouth dropped open. Remus had used _veritaserum_ on Draco and no one had told her? She made herself listen a moment longer, in case there was still somehow a good reason for the Order's decision to keep Draco confined. Maybe Draco was rubbing off on her, because she didn't expect there would be good reason. Just old hatreds.

"Yeah well, I still don't have to like him, do I, Harry?"

"Me either. There's no way I'm _ever_ going to like Malfoy. Arrogant, evil fucking _prick_." Ginny's voice chimed in.

"Ginny!" Ron was no doubt aghast at his little sister's choice of words, but Hermione wasn't paying much attention. The thought that Harry and the others had kept Draco trapped in the cellar for more than a week while knowing – _knowing_ – that he was no danger to the Order had Hermione's blood boiling. She flung Harry's bedroom door wide open and stormed in, watched her friends' mouths snap shut with no little satisfaction. "'Mione!" Ron gasped but Hermione's gaze fell on Harry, sitting on the bed with Ginny's feet in his lap. "You've _known_ for over a week that Draco was trustworthy, and you still haven't let him out of the cellar?" she snapped furiously, head protesting as her own shrill voice cut through the air. Harry blanched. "You, ah, heard that?"

"Yes, Harry. Obviously I did."

"_Draco_?" Ron asked disbelievingly and Hermione glanced at him, his face scrunched up as he repeated Draco's name and shook his head, "_Draco?_"

"What were you _thinking_, Harry? You can't keep someone locked up, held prisoner, when you know that they don't pose any danger!" Hermione demanded, and Harry looked torn, "It's the best place for him, Hermione."

"_How?_" Hermione snapped out, hands on her hips, foot tapping impatiently on the floor, trying to ignore the growing feeling that her head was about to explode all over Harry's room.

"Since when did you start calling the ferret _Draco?_"

"No one in the Order wants him around, and I doubt he wants to be around _us_ either, and the cellar is as good a room as anyone has – it's a bit cold and draughty, sure, but it's huge, and he doesn't even have to share a loo." Harry scrubbed his hand through his hair, true green eyes sincerely puzzled on Hermione's narrowed, irate glare. "Honestly, Hermione, why do you care so much?"

"And why are you calling him _Draco?_" Ron tacked on persistently from his seat on Harry's desk chair, revulsion in his voice, carroty hair flopping over his face as he leant forward and gave Hermione a hard, suspicious stare. Hermione growled under her breath, clutched her aching head with one hand and said, "Because that's his name, _Ronald_. I care because he's not on _their_ side anymore, and he's actually not an entirely horrible person."

"He's an arrogant prat!"

"Yes, Ron, he can be. But he's not a horrible person. And he _is_ a person." Hermione stared hard at Ron, Ginny and Harry in turn, the full force of a furious and disapproving Hermione Granger expression piercing into them, "I know he was a horrible, infuriating, evil git at school, but he's _changed_. I've spent time with him, unlike any of you three, and I've seen how he's changed. I've seen it. It may sound unlikely, but it's _true_."

Ron was looking disgusted by Hermione's passionate defence of the boy he hated, and Ginny and Harry didn't appear convinced either. Ginny raised an eyebrow at Harry and he lifted a shoulder in a shrug, as if to say, _I don't know what she's going on about. _Hermione sighed harshly and pinched the bridge of her nose as her head thud-thud-thudded at her. How was she supposed to get them to understand that since Draco had turned himself over to the Order, she had discovered there was another side to him that neither she nor the others had ever seen before? It was obviously not something they would believe easily; not even _her_ word would be good enough it seemed. Hermione realised that if she were in Harry or Ron's position, she might be equally as disbelieving. But she tried, anyway, "He's actually quite nice, in his own…_unique_…sort of way. I've come to, um, quite enjoy spending time with him." It was hard to admit, with her best friends looking at her like she'd completely lost it and gone round the bend. She fidgeted, willing herself not to blush.

"_Imperius_, you think?" Ron said conversationally to Harry, and Harry canted his head to one side, seeming to think about it. "I don't know… He's got no wand, how would he _Imperio_ her?" Hermione went white with anger. She was standing right here for god's sake! What kind of stupid, immature joke were they playing at? Her mouth opened and shut, speechless with indignant shock as Ron answered Harry, "Wandless magic, you think? Maybe some sort of Dark trick he picked up from you-know-who?" Harry hummed, "No…I don't think Malfoy's talented enough for that, even with Voldemort's help." Then Ginny spoke up and Hermione's wide eyes swivelled to her as the younger girl said mockingly of Draco, "Could be he's just playing the sympathy card. 'Oh no, my hand got cut off by my Dark Lord master, Hermione, _feel sorry for me!_'"

That was going too damn far. Friends or not, joking about Draco_ losing his hand_ was over the line. They didn't even seem to give a damn that Draco was a _person_, a boy their own age, who wasn't actually evil but just raised horribly wrong, who had gotten tangled up in a mess he hadn't been able to extricate himself from immediately. They didn't care that he had turned himself over to the Order, or that he had been tortured for letting Hermione go in the Manor, or that he had lost everything that had once been important to him. They just didn't give a fuck. Hermione saw herself reflected in their eyes, in their laughing, uncaring faces. Not so long ago, Hermione would have been sitting there with them; maybe not joining in, but smiling and not seeing a single damn thing wrong with what they were saying. It was jarring, and it shook Hermione down to her bones.

She had been _just like them_; seeing Draco Malfoy as a one-dimensional caricature of the next generation of evil, as a figure to be hated and scorned and _othered_. And he wasn't that, he wasn't that at all. Her pulse fluttered and her palms went clammy. Draco was so much more than that. Hermione wasn't sure _what_ he was really, but after last night, she knew he was _something_, to her at least. When Hermione had been curled up against Draco – admittedly drunk out of her head – there had most definitely been something sparking between them. He really meant something to herand it seemed so odd that she would finally openly acknowledge that fact to herself while in front of her friends, who hated Draco, who no doubt really _would_ think Hermione was under an _Imperius _if she admitted the confusing feelings she felt for the boy they hated. That _she_ had once hated and now really, really didn't.

But it wasn't time to untangle _that_ mess of inexplicable, improbable feelings. Introspection could come _after_ Hermione had let out the extreme annoyance she was currently experiencing towards her friends, when she was in her bedroom with the door locked and charmed for total privacy. When she _wasn't_ battling the worst hangover in the history of the world.

"It wasn't _Voldemort_ who cut off Draco's hand, Ginny, and it's not a fucking subject of humour! It was his fucking hand! How would you feel if you lost a body part? You were all _so_ upset and devastated for…for Cho, but when it's Draco it's just _hilarious_?" Hermione shouted shrilly, blood pounding in her ears as she faced down her closest friends with fury sharp on her tongue, "You're my best friends and I love you all – you know that – but I'm not going to put up with you acting like this! Saying these _horrible_, unfair things. Because now you're just all being _cruel_. _Cruel._ You don't have any reason to like Draco, but you don't have to be _cruel_ to him!"

They sat there stunned for a moment in the wake of Hermione's outburst, and then Ron blinked and said bewilderedly, "But it was only a joke, Hermione. We're just…I don't know why you're getting this upset over the _ferret_. What's going _on_, 'Mione?" Hermione could have smacked him in the head. "Way to miss the point, _Ronald_," she snapped painfully as her head begged her to stop being so _loud_, and then before he could protest, continued, "And by the way, seeing as I already told Draco to stop calling you the _Weasel_, perhaps you could refrain from calling him a _ferret_. As far as I can tell, _neither_ of you are rodents."

"Hermione…" Ron's face was a study in distressed confusion, and Harry was looking down at his hands, which twisted nervously in his lap. Good. Hermione hoped he was ashamed of himself. And then she felt terrible for yelling at her friends. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly and trying to calm her shaky nerves. "Hermione, we're sorry. We just want to know why you're so annoyed about _Malfoy_. It's bloody weird. I don't get it…" Ron didn't know when to just shut up and let things lie, and Hermione sighed exasperatedly, "You've made it very clear that you don't get it. But honestly, Ron, there's not a lot to get. I've been spending time with Draco, mostly because I felt sorry for him, and I got to know him a bit, and, well, he's not as much of an arrogant git as I thought. And he's not evil at all. Like I said, he's actually not bad company. That's all there is to it," Hermione said tiredly, sick of fighting. Perhaps her mother had been right about eavesdropping after all.

Luna was sitting on the end of the bed awkwardly, twirling a braid around one finger and looking sympathetically at Hermione, and it was nice to have one person who seemed to sort of understand. Harry still had his eyes glued to his fidgeting hands, and Hermione couldn't tell what he was thinking, Ron looked upset and frustrated, and Ginny…was that suspicion in Ginny's eyes? Hermione shifted uncomfortably under Ginny's intent stare, and then told herself not to – there wasn't anything for Ginny to be suspicious of. She tried not to think about the kiss; weeks ago now, but Hermione remembered it so clearly it could have been yesterday. And then of course there was the um, cuddling last night. But that was hardly something deserving of suspicion. And besides, it was none of Ginny's business. Hermione blushed and swore in her head.

"Surely you can understand why we're confused, Hermione? It's Malfoy. He's…I would have thought you'd rather stab him in the eye with your quill than be friendly with _him_," Harry said uneasily, and Hermione sighed harshly and shrugged. "Yes. I know. I understand that. But you know, regardless of whether I hate him or…don't mind him, it's still cruel to keep him trapped down in that cellar when you _know_ he could safely be allowed out."

"What? So that he can spend time with _us_? Blood traitors and mudbloods? I'm sure Malfoy would just _love _that," Ginny snarked, sulking on the bed with her arms crossed over her chest and a glare on her usually pretty features. "Well he doesn't seem to mind spending time with me, playing Muggle games and reading Muggle books." Hermione shot back, adding in her head, _and drinking Muggle alcohol_.

"_Malfoy?_ Reading_ Muggle _books?" Ron boggled at Hermione.

"Yes, Ron. Reading Muggle books. Like I said before, he's _changed_. Obviously though, the only way for you to believe that, is to see it for yourselves. And that's only fair. I wouldn't believe myself either, if I were you, I'm sure," Hermione said briskly but very fairly, she thought, trying to ignore the throbbing behind her eyes and pressure in her skull. "I actually came up here to tell you, Harry, that we've received word from the Ministries and other organizations we requested aid from. Kingsley has called a meeting, and Professor McGonagall will be attending."

"Professor McGonagall?" Harry appeared to completely forget the fact that they had just been arguing, and his face lit up at the thought of seeing their old Head of House again. It had been well over a month since the last brief time they had seen the ex-Gryffindor Head of House, as she refused to leave Hogwarts – spending all her time in the Room of Requirement organising small raids and rescue parties into the hallways of her beloved school.

"Yes. The meeting is in," Hermione checked her watch, "Ten minutes. And Harry, once the other issues have been dealt with, I am going to request that Draco be given access to the rest of the house – and I do hope you'll _do the right thing_ and back me on that." She looked hard at Harry, and her best friend looked away, unable to hold Hermione's gaze. "I'll think about it, 'Mione, okay?" he said and Hermione rolled her eyes. "There's nothing to think about in my opinion. And you only have five minutes to think before the meeting, so do it fast," she told Harry briskly.

"'Mione…" Ron said pleadingly, and Hermione ignored him completely. She was so _furious_ at him, and she half-wished she had never tried changing their minds about Draco…except she didn't want them hating him. He didn't deserve it. He really didn't. She really wanted them to like him. Except that was something she knew she could never reasonably expect. It was all horribly depressing. "Right. I'll see you lot downstairs," she said weakly, and hurried out of the room, fingers massaging her temples as last night's vodka tried to make her morning more of a misery than it already was.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ So, what did you think? Suggestions for later chapters? Things you want to see? Critique? General praise to boost my flailing ego? It's all positively _begged_ for :D

Also, FYI, the chapter title is a lyric from "In Our Bedroom After the War" by Stars.


	16. Was Supposed to End in Fire

_Author's Note: _Wow, so many positive reviews for the last chapter! You have no idea how happy that makes me! The dread writer's block seems to be getting driven off by all the wonderful feedback (seriously, there's nothing like knowing people enjoy what you're writing to help you get your head back in the game). The title is from another Stars song, "Life 2: The Unhappy Ending".

I'm not sure what you'll think of what I've done with this (enormously long) chapter, but as always, I really hope you all simply love it, and think it works!

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Was Supposed to End in Fire**_

The meeting began around the dining room table, and Hermione found herself struggling to pay attention. At least her hangover was fading at last. She didn't really need to be there. Remus, Kingsley, Harry – and Professor McGonagall or any other senior Order member present – made all the major decisions. Anyone else could attend a meeting and put in their two knuts, so to speak, but in the end the final decisions were not up to the rest of the Order. It was the best way to operate; if they had all had an equal say, then no decision would ever have gotten made. Right now Hermione wished she had more power though; she was unsure whether or not Harry was going to back her up when she asked for Draco to be released from the cellar. He kept avoiding her eyes– although that could just be because she had bitten his head off over Draco Malfoy, of all people. He was probably in shock, she thought with a small grin.

"…planning to move on Europe, or so our sources say. Karkaroff is panicking at the news. He knows that you-know-who will try to find him, and if he can't find Karkaroff, he will quite likely focus on taking Durmstrang in retribution," Kingsley was saying, and Hermione blinked, trying to focus. Voldemort was spreading his reach? Well, that made sense. Magical Britain was pretty well conquered, with only small pockets of resistance left, mostly organised under the banner of the Order of the Phoenix. Voldemort must have assumed it was safe to begin extending his empire. "So Karkaroff and Durmstrang are willing to fight with the Order. As is Beauxbaton's. They recognise the threat that you-know-who poses to them, and are willing to fight. But the European Ministries…they, like our own Ministry before it fell, refuse to acknowledge that the Wizarding world is in great danger."

"They will not aid us?" McGonagall asked in her sharp voice, and Kingsley shook his head gravely, "No. They will send no aid." Hermione bit her lip and worried at it. That didn't sound good. The Order couldn't fight Voldemort efficiently without any help. His influence was spreading, and the ranks of his Death Eaters were growing – before long the Order would be completely outnumbered, and the war all but lost. Hermione's train of thought drifted off again as Kingsley put the scroll he had been examining aside, and hunted through a small stack of them; all tied up with ribbon and sealed with different coloured waxes.

Hermione couldn't believe she had blown her stack at Ron, Harry and Ginny like that. She was quite proud of herself. Although they probably thought she had lost it from the constant strain they were all under, to have defended Draco the way she had. Yelling at them and calling them cruel. Except they _were_ being cruel, and friends or not, Hermione wasn't going to stand for that. They didn't know what he was like now. They hadn't seen Draco smiling, or full of concern, or bickering without malice; and they didn't know how Draco stared at Hermione when he thought she wasn't looking. All molten silver eyes that made her feel fluttery in the pit of her stomach, that made her feel hot and nervous and shy.

No, they wouldn't understand at all. Hermione herself hardly understood what it was she felt toward the Slytherin. Except now she had to admit to herself that there was _something_. She couldn't live in uneasy denial anymore. There had to be _something_ there for her to defend him to her best friends the way she had. And it was more than just some hormonal attraction. It was something that Hermione wasn't supposed to be feeling for Draco Malfoy, and it _terrified_ her.

Her mind went back to last night – to touching Draco's Dark Mark. She had put her fingers on it and felt the writhing darkness that slithered through the magical tattoo. She still couldn't believe she had done that; that she had somehow gotten the nerve to ask to see it and _touch_ it. But she was glad she had. It had made Hermione realise that it didn't define him. It was just a scar – more horrible than other peoples' scars perhaps, but still just a scar. It had no power unless Draco wished to give it power. And Hermione trusted him not to do that. She _trusted_ him. The thought was such a strange one.

In a way she was thankful to Lucius Malfoy, because if it hadn't been for the poisonous words he had said to Hermione she might never have confronted Draco, and had that final reassurance. He had been so scared she would despise him when she saw the Mark; she had seen the fear in his eyes, in the determined set of his shoulders and the slight tremble of his hand as he had held his arm out to her. Hermione had despised the Mark, the evil blot on smooth, pale skin, but not Draco. No, she hadn't despised him.

"…Canadian and American ministries will not send aid either," Kingsley's voice broke through Hermione's thoughts and she felt a weight settle on her heart. So, yet another country's wizarding community refused to assist the Order. That was unfortunately _not_ a surprise. "What about the schools?" Remus asked and Kingsley shook his head, "Neither the Salem Witches Academy nor the Massachusetts Bay School of Wizardry will get involved. We haven't heard from the Montréal école de Sorcellerie yet."

"Damn," Remus groaned, and Tonks, who sat next to him, twined her fingers through his and they shared a smile. Hermione felt oddly jealous, looking at the two of them, cosy and in love. Everyone supporting them, happy for them. "They are _cowards_, all of them," Professor McGonagall snapped angrily, and then silence fell as Kingsley pulled out another scroll, breaking the seal and unrolling the scroll with a whisper of parchment. "Ah, excellent," he said and everyone, including Hermione herself, leaned forward eagerly. "The Warlock of Chiloé has agreed to cooperate with the Order, and will be sending us several _Machis_ to replace the Healers we lost during the Death Eater attacks on Saint Mungo's." That was a relief. An _enormous_ relief. For several months the Order had been limping on with only basic medi-witches for the most part; the few remaining Healers run ragged with the demand for their services.

Hermione wondered how best to breach the topic of Draco. She didn't know what she would do if they all stared at her like she were crazy, like Ron, Harry and Ginny had done upstairs. Why was it so odd for someone to think maybe they shouldn't be cruel to someone who was no danger to them, who had defected and turned themselves over to the Order? Hermione licked her lips, waiting for a chance to speak as Kingsley and the others finished up their discussion of groups who might be potential allies, and those who might potentially join Voldemort. "Sources on our side in Japan indicate that Voldemort is getting funding and support from several wealthy _tsukimono-sujo_ families. Not that he needs anymore galleons, with the control he has over Gringotts now."

"What about the African Multinational Ministry?"

"No. They have too much trouble in their own backyard at the moment to be able to spare aid. With the rash of killings Muggles are inflicting on the wizarding community at the present time, the AMM's official position is that they will have to wait for Voldemort to strike at them before they risk taking action. I believe they hope he will not."

"A vain hope," McGonagall commented with a tired sigh, looking well older than her already advanced years. Kingsley fished out another scroll and nodded, "Yes, unfortunately. We did however make contact with a number of _sangoma _and _inyanga_ and their apprentices individually, and several have agreed to come to fight with the Order."

"Well, every extra person who joins us makes a difference, even without the official AMM support," Remus commented optimistically, and then the discussion veered off into what other organizations the Order might be able to plead aid from, and Hermione tuned out. Snatches of conversation lodged in her brain, the one that caught her interest being that Karkaroff was going to come to Godric's Hollow, and Viktor Krum would be accompanying him. Hermione had kept in touch with Viktor via owl since they had met at the time of the Triwizard Tournament, and had their brief…fling. They weren't close pen pals by any stretch of the imagination, but they had sent cards to each other at every holiday up until the Ministry had fallen and Hermione and the boys had gone on the hunt for horcruxes. It would be nice to see him again.

"Actually, Kingsley, there was something I would like to discuss, if I may?" she said in response to Kinsley's perfunctory query as to whether there was anything else. "Yes, Miss Granger?" Hermione gulped and steeled herself as everyone stared at her, and said, "I would like to request that Draco Malfoy be released from his imprisonment in the cellar, and be placed under magically binding house arrest instead." Kingsley looked as composed as always, but Remus looked vaguely startled, and Hermione blushed when she saw Tonks whisper something in Remus' ear and he glanced at Tonks, surprised, and whispered something back. Damnit, what did Tonks think she knew? How would Tonks know anything? "And what is your reason for that, Miss Granger?" Professor McGonagall asked, eyes sharp and kind on Hermione's flushed face. "Well, um. Harry was telling me that Remus interrogated Draco, um Malfoy, under _veritaserum_ a little over a week ago, and detected no ill intent from him. So there's really no reason to keep him locked up down there."

"Remus, you have kept the boy in the cellar even though you were aware he was not a threat?" Hermione thought McGonagall sounded slightly disapproving, and Remus nodded, "There has been no reason to release him. Yes, the _veritaserum_ revealed that he believes he is no danger to us, but without a Legilimens to delve into his mind, we cannot be sure what the Dark Lord may have done to him. He could be a sleeper agent, for instance. Harry thinks, and I agree, that it is best to keep Draco Malfoy confined for the present."

"Until when, Remus?" Hermione crossed her fingers under the table as McGonagall questioned Remus.

"Indefinitely."

"And what do you think of this, Kingsley?"

"When you are unsure on a matter, it is better to err on the side of caution." Kingsley answered briefly, clearly not that interested in what happened to Draco Malfoy, and Hermione couldn't keep quiet any longer. "It's inhumane to keep someone who's harmless locked up alone constantly, for who knows how long. The _veritaserum_ said Dra– Malfoy's harmless, this house is well warded, and if you place him under a binding charm to tie him to the house, there's no way he would be able to escape. Why not let him out?"

"You are extremely emphatic on the matter, Miss Granger." McGonagall eyed Hermione, and she looked away, unable to hold the older witch's sharp gaze. "I've been spending some time with him lately, Professor, and although I'm not a Legilimens, I have seen definite signs that Malfoy appears to have genuinely changed his, ah, loyalties," Hermione stumbled, "And I don't think it's right to keep him prisoner when he willingly sought sanctuary with us." _Please let her agree, please,_ Hermione repeated over and over in her head, fingers still tightly crossed under the table. It looked like Professor McGonagall was going to be Hermione's best chance to get Draco his freedom. And he wanted it badly. Every time she left the cellar, Hermione saw his silent desperation to go with her – the longing to be able to just get _out_ of the same four walls he had been trapped within for well over a month. You kept a person shut up long enough, with no idea when they were getting out… It wasn't good for their mental health.

"Maybe Hermione's right," Harry mumbled reluctantly, "I mean, what can Malfoy do? He's got no wand, and he's _apparently_ defected; what's he going to do? Maybe we _should_ just let him out." Hermione tried not to heave a sigh of relief when Harry finally spoke up, and a fierce, expectant joy ran through her. She grinned at Harry and caught his eye, and he gave her a small, not entirely happy smile. "You were the one who thought we should keep him –" Remus began, and Harry interrupted quickly, "I know, Remus. But I've been talking to Hermione," Everyone looked at her and she tried not to cringe under the weight of their curious glances. "And obviously she thinks it's um, not fair to keep him locked up any longer. And I, um, I agree." Harry didn't sound very enthusiastic, but apparently it was enough for the others, because Remus nodded, and after a moment Professor McGonagall said briskly, "That sounds perfectly fair. If he poses no danger to himself or anyone else, there's no reason to keep the boy confined. I'll perform a charm to bind Mr Malfoy to the house after the meeting, if you agree – Remus, Kingsley?"

They agreed, and so it was decided. They were going to let Draco out of the bloody cellar. Hermione slumped back in her chair bonelessly, grinning to herself, and feeling like she had accomplished something meaningful. It was only a small thing, being allowed the run of the house instead being trapped in one room, but it was _something_. A first step towards Draco gaining the Order's trust and acceptance, perhaps – although to be honest, Hermione didn't think those two things would be coming for a very long time.

# # #

"Draco?" Hermione called out as Professor McGonagall followed her down the steep stairway into the cellar. As usual, he was sitting at the table with a book open on his thighs, feet propped up on the tabletop. Draco looked up at Hermione and a smile softened his sharp features, his hand shoving his hair carelessly off his face. "Good morning. How's your head today?" he asked her with a knowing smirk, and then his eyes widened and the smile dropped off his face like it had never existed. "Professor McGonagall," he said carefully as the two witches reached the cellar floor. "Mr Malfoy," Professor McGonagall answered briskly, and Draco laid his book down on the table and stood. The change in him triggered by Professor McGonagall's presence was sudden and striking, and made Hermione wince uncomfortably.

Draco's face was cold and blank, his eyes hard and voice toneless as he asked, "Come to interrogate the prisoner, perhaps?" Hermione winced again, hugging herself and trying to catch Draco's eye, making a face that was supposed to mean _be polite_. Hermione realised Draco couldn't help feeling defensive, but acting like the arrogant bastard he used to be wasn't going to endear himself to anyone. Draco's shoulders were stiff and his sharp chin up, jaw clenched as he stared at the Professor.

"I have not been stationed here, so I am not entirely cognizant of all the aspects of your situation, but as I understand it, Mr Malfoy, there has been every reason to keep you confined, and you have been treated well," McGonagall reprimanded him tartly, and then continued in a slightly kinder tone. "However, in light of the fact that you turned yourself and your mother over to the Order, and taking into consideration your age, good behaviour, testimony under _veritaserum_, and Miss Granger's statement that you no longer appear to sympathise with Voldemort's cause…" Professor McGonagall eyed Draco sternly, "The Order has decided to allow you some small, supervised, freedom." Hermione watched Draco anxiously as Professor McGonagall explained the Order's decision. "I have come to, if you are amenable, perform a charm to bind you to the house, so that your confinement may be amended to a more lenient, house arrest."

Draco arched an eyebrow, his grey eyes not on McGonagall but Hermione. She felt her skin grow warmer under his assessing gaze. "How…surprising," he said dryly. Draco's tone was obviously for McGonagall's benefit, but Hermione knew he was referring to their conversation the night before. "I was convinced that nothing would dissuade the Order from their self-righteous condemnation of me."

"Mr Malfoy!" Professor McGonagall snapped, and Hermione felt her headache worsen. Why _exactly_ did Draco have to act like this? He had to be aware that being an insufferable git wasn't going to help the tenuous situation. "Draco!" she hissed under her breath, and glared ferociously at him. He ignored her, cool grey stare on McGonagall, "I apologise, Professor, but being imprisoned in a cellar for near enough on two months has done nothing to endear me to…you people." He said the last two words with immense distaste, and Hermione slapped a hand to her forehead. _You people?_ She mouthed at Draco in silent, horrified disbelief, _really? You people?_ "Obviously," Professor McGonagall replied, seemingly completely unmoved by Draco's attitude. "And I understand your resentment, just as I am _sure_ you can understand the Order's caution." Draco looked suspicious of McGonagall's lack of anger in response to his rudeness, but after a long moment he nodded reluctantly. "I can. Yes."

"Good. Now then, Mr Malfoy; are you willing to be bound to the house such that you will be unable to leave in any manner, unless accompanied by a willing, un-coerced, and sound of mind senior member of the Order of the Phoenix, in exchange for the privilege of wandering freely within the house?" There were tight lines etched into Draco's face, his hand clenched at his side, and his mouth twisted contemptuously at the word _privilege_, but he nodded again. "Yes, I am, Professor." Professor McGonagall nodded, took out her wand and gestured for Draco to give her his hand. He did so, reluctance in every movement, and Professor McGonagall pressed the tip of her wand against the palm of his hand, intoned a string of words Hermione didn't recognise, and there was a small spark of yellowish light. Draco flinched and made a small sound of pain, jerking his hand back to his side and rubbing it on his jeans.

"Is it done, then?" he asked sharply, and Professor McGonagall looked at him for a long moment. "It is indeed, Mr Malfoy." She began to turn away from him, and then paused, "I find myself unaware of _what_ exactly Miss Granger appears to find changed within you, but as I trust her word I must assume you have altered for the better to some degree. I suggest, Mr Malfoy that in the future you not lash out at those who wish to believe Miss Granger's word with sullenness and petty rudeness. It does her a great disservice, to say nothing of yourself." Hermione saw Draco gulp, his eyes stuck to the older witch's, and then he looked down at the floor as though thoroughly chastised, and nodded once. McGonagall smiled thinly. "Very well. Good day, Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy," the Professor said brusquely, with a kind look for Hermione, and then swept up the stairs with a rustling of her robes.

Hermione waited until the Professor had gone before she hurried over to Draco. "What on _earth_ were you thinking, being rude to her like that?" Draco's face still held remnants of the cold façade he had put up for McGonagall and it made Hermione shiver. "I don't like them, Hermione. Any of them. I understand that I have…made mistakes, but by Merlin I have _paid_ for those mistakes." His eyes went to his right arm, "And still the Order wants to make me pay more, and more. And _more_. I'm _not_ going to play the grovelling, grateful prisoner. Not even if it would make things easier on me. I will behave, I will do nothing wrong, but I'm not going to _grovel_, damnit." Hermione took a step back from him, the frost in his eyes making him look like someone other than the man she had spent most of last night with. "You can't ask me to do that, Hermione." It almost sounded pleading – almost – and Hermione licked her lips nervously, shifted on her feet. Draco's hand caught her wrist and he stared down at her, eyes softening and turning the colour of rain-heavy clouds.

"I – I won't. I just…I don't want you to make it harder on yourself. They – if they could just see how you've changed." Hermione tried to convince him and Draco shook his head, "No. They don't care to see how I've _changed_. Not Potter and Weasley, anyway. It doesn't matter how much I grovel and scrape, they aren't going to give a fuck. I'm their handy scapegoat, and they like keeping me that way." Hermione nodded again, slow and numb. He was right. Draco's fingers were warm and firm around her wrist, and she felt strange. She had expected him to be _pleased_ that he was allowed some more freedom, not like…this. Cold and hard, all the warmth leached out of him. Hermione had thought he would be happy, had thought that she was helping. "Maybe they won't…" she tried, but he gave her a look and she didn't finish her sentence. She tried again, "I thought you'd be happy, Draco. You've said before just how much you hate being trapped down here."

"I do. I do, you're right. But I have to wonder how much better up there," he jerked his head at the open trapdoor, "Is going to be." Draco's thumb stroked over the inside of Hermione's wrist, and he showed no sign of letting go. Goosebumps shivered over her skin at the intimate touch. "How did you convince Potter?" he asked coolly, and Hermione swallowed hard, nervous under his gaze. She didn't like how he had just shut down as soon as he had seen Professor McGonagall. And the fact that he was still like that…it unsettled her. "I told him to do the right thing." Draco let go of her wrist and Hermione pulled her arm back to her side, wanting to hold it where he had; she didn't know why. It wasn't like he had hurt her; it had felt nice, in fact. But now that patch of skin was tingling and she wanted to rub at it and scrub away the slight itch. She refrained and focused on Draco, on those cool grey eyes that roamed over her face and made her feel as if he was looking straight into her head. "Just like that? That was all it took, was it?" he asked with disbelieving amusement written in the arch of one eyebrow and the old, familiar twist to his mouth.

Hermione shrugged reluctantly, "All right, so I lectured them – Ron and Harry and Ginny – a bit first." He smirked and Hermione rolled her eyes. If anyone had been right about Harry, she had been, because Draco hadn't thought she would be able to convince him to let Draco out at all. The highly competitive part of her pointed out that Draco seemed to think he had been right, when he had, in fact, _not_ been. Hermione reminded him of that, pointedly, "But Harry still did the right thing. I seem to remember very clearly, you saying that _Potter seems insistent_. Well, he's not insistent anymore, is he?" She stared triumphantly at Draco, arms crossed over her chest. "I was _right_."

"That trait is not an attractive one, Granger," Draco retorted, a hint of affection in his eyes and a smile barely brushing his lips, "Nobody likes it when someone says _I told you so_." Hermione sniffed, "Hah. You're just annoyed that I was right, and _you_ were wrong." Draco grinned despite himself, "Yes, but you probably shrieked at him like a banshee. _No one_ is going to ignore _you_ when you're in full swing, let alone when you're hung-over and probably at least ten percent more vicious." He quirked his eyebrows at her, "It wasn't because it was the right thing. It was because you terrified poor Potter into submission." A look of disgust crossed Draco's face, and he shuddered, "Ugh. I said _poor Potter_ and _submission_ in the same sentence. I may never recover from the horror." Hermione smiled. "Good," she said, and it was good. Somehow Hermione had, without intending to, managed to distract Draco out of that awful coldness that had fallen over him, and he stood staring at her with his grey eyes silvery and warm, lips twitching with a smirk.

"Shall we go up?" Hermione asked, waving at the cellar steps, and smiling encouragingly. Draco took a breath, seeming to steel himself, and then nodded. "I suppose I better. I don't want everyone thinking that I'd rather hide away in here like a rat in a hole." Hermione started for the steps. "Very evocative imagery," she said lightly, trying to keep that frost, that distancing icy chill from shuttering his face again. Draco looked the few metres across the cellar at her, "I appreciate the attempt," he said as if he'd read her mind. Hermione didn't bother denying it. "Well. Let's go," she said and walked back to where he stood like a pale statue. Slipped her hand into his and tugged at him. Draco's fingers spasmed and clamped down on hers so hard it hurt just the tiniest bit, and all of a sudden Hermione realised what was wrong.

Draco was scared.

Down in the cellar he might have been trapped and lonely, bored and sick of the same four walls closing in around him, but Draco was also protected from the hatred and contempt of the Order. No, Hermione corrected herself reluctantly, not the _Order_, but Ron, Harry, Ginny, and all the others who had been subject to his arrogant, bigoted behaviour back at school. "Come on then, I'll –" She broke off – Draco wouldn't appreciate her offers of protection. That would only make him feel weaker, more pathetic. "Come on," she repeated lamely instead, and he followed Hermione unresistingly to the stairs. They started up, Hermione leading Draco by the hand still, and then she stepped into the light and stopped. Looked down at him, two steps below her and still in the shadows; linked by their outstretched arms and clasped hands.

Hermione let her fingers go slack in his and something sharp ached in her chest. Draco's eyes met hers, and there was a certain understanding in them as he let her hand go, let it fall back to her side. Hermione wanted to say something, wanted to explain, to justify why it wouldn't look good, wouldn't help him…. But there was nothing to explain, was there? There was no acknowledged reason for Hermione to be holding Draco Malfoy's hand, to feel bad about letting it go. She looked down at him standing in the shadows, and the disconnected thought came to her, _how appropriate_. His full mouth was a tightly flattened line, and his eyes stony and shuttered again.

Hermione felt a little scared too, if she was honest with herself. As she took the last few steps up into the dining room, she couldn't stop thinking about how her two worlds were colliding.

The one where she laughed, talked, argued and fought alongside her friends. The one where everyone was fighting the good fight, and was so certain, so sure of themselves and of their rightness and nobility. The one where good was good and evil was evil, and Hermione Granger was the former and Draco Malfoy the latter. _And never the twain shall meet_; the phrase flew through her head. It was from a poem Hermione had learnt in primary school, long before she had known of the wizarding world, before she had known of blood purity and the bigotry that went hand in hand with it. Both the common out-of-context phrase and the line as it was meant in the poem fit so perfectly, and it was thinking hard of the second that Hermione stepped up into the dining room.

The other world was the one that had always been temporary, not really _real_. A limbo, a train station, a fantasy world. Sneaking downstairs to see the prisoner in the cellar, heart beating hard and quick in her chest. It hadn't been real, and Hermione was suddenly scared that whatever it was that had begun between her and Draco, it wouldn't survive the destruction of the world it had been born in. Wouldn't survive the transition from the dreamlike shadows of the cellar to the bright afternoon sun that flooded the dining room. Her pulse tripped swiftly, her chest felt tight. She told herself not to worry.

"Come on, then," Hermione said once more as she held the trapdoor open for Draco, who still stood on the cellar steps, frozen just within the shadows. The coldness still lingered about him, and Hermione understood why now. He had gained his freedom, but it was a paltry one; he had gained the freedom to be around people who despised him. He was worried and scared, and couldn't ever admit it. "Yeah," Draco said and his voice was husky and barely audible. She waited, hand gripping the warm solid wood of the cellar door, and Draco squared his shoulders and finally stepped up and out into the dining room. He squinted against the light streaming in the windows and flooding over him, and Hermione saw him truly clearly for the first time since he had arrived at the house at Godric's Hollow. Down in the cellar the only light had been the single orb, bluish and dim. Now in the warm glow of the afternoon sun, Hermione saw properly all the strain and wear his captivity had put him under.

"Are you all right?" she asked softly as Draco stood squinting into the sun. His skin was pallid in comparison to the pale tone it used to have – lack of sunlight, no doubt, and the dark hollows of stress and sleeplessness beneath his eyes were too noticeable, his too-long hair catching the light and looking almost white as it fell half over his angular face. In his long-sleeved Muggle tee shirt and jeans, in the light Draco seemed thin and fragile and somehow like a different person to who he was down in the cellar. "Why wouldn't I be?" His voice was sharp and cool all at once, but he hugged his maimed arm to his body and looked around the room with hunched shoulders as if he expected to have to defend himself. There was no one in the dining room though; obviously none of the Order wanted to see Draco and they must have all filtered out while Professor McGonagall was casting the binding charm. Hermione licked her lips, unsure what to do now.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked Draco tentatively, and he shrugged, "Why not. Thank you." His voice was barely audible and toneless, and his steel-cold eyes darted around the room as if searching for threats, his shoulders stiff and tense. Hermione dithered for a moment. She wanted to reassure Draco that everything would be fine, but didn't know how. Didn't know if it was the truth. Hermione touched his arm lightly and Draco flinched at her touch, stared at her with wide grey eyes that caught the light and sparked with starkly obvious fear. She bit her lip; she hadn't been expecting to see his emotions appear so clearly, ghosting through his icy eyes before he composed his face again. "Sorry. Um, sit," she waved at the long table, "Sit down and I'll be back in a second with some tea." Draco just nodded and did as she said with stiff obedience, and Hermione rubbed at her forehead, frustrated and worried. She had truly thought Draco would be glad to get out of the dark, dank cellar. She had known it would be…well, awkward at the very least, but she hadn't been expecting this, this _retreat_.

Hermione left him sitting huddled on the kitchen side of the table, right by the end – facing the doorway through to the foyer. But he turned his head as she left, and Hermione could feel his eyes burning into her as she disappeared into the kitchen. A few waves of Hermione's wand and things flew into action, kettle whistling as it hastily boiled, mugs coming flying out of the cupboard, two tea bags dropped into the bottom of the mugs – and a generous teaspoon of sugar for her own cup. It only took a moment before two steaming hot mugs of tea sat on the bench, and she scooped them up, hurrying back through. Draco was sitting in exactly the same position when she came back, and his eyes flew to the doorway as Hermione walked in. His hand reached for a wand that wasn't there – hadn't been there for months, and yet he still expected it. It sent a pang through her.

Hermione sat at the end of the table across the corner from him, and slid over his mug of tea. He thanked her distractedly, and then sat staring into the mug, saying nothing. "This is nice," Hermione said hopefully. "Is it?" Draco asked, a hint of acerbity in his tone and Hermione half-wished she hadn't gained him this freedom. And then her foot found his under the table accidentally-on-purpose and he jumped, and then smiled at her. A real smile, although a little weak. It transformed Draco's face and wiped away some of the strain etched into his features, made him look younger – and faded far too soon. "I think so. Isn't it nice to not be shut up down there anymore?" Hermione's toes wrestled idly with Draco's and she hid a grin by shoving her nose in her tea and gulping down a mouthful, burning her tongue. "I guess –" he began and then stopped.

"Always so optimistic, Granger," Draco said and his voice was tight, and when Hermione looked up questioningly at him he nodded at the foyer doorway. Ginny stood there, Ron at her side, both their wands in hand, Ron twirling his casually between his fingers. "Where's Harry?" Hermione didn't bother with the pleasantries. She knew immediately why they were there. "Busy with Lupin." Ron said, staring at the scene in front of him. "Working on the war effort. And you're sitting having a pleasant cuppa with the bloke who stood and gaped while you were being tortured. Hermione, what the bloody hell are you _doing_?"

Hermione counted to ten in her head, and when her voice was reasonably calm and not shaking with the adrenaline that had begun flooding her veins, said, "Ronald, you don't want to do this. _I_ don't want to do this. Just go." She looked at Ron, at his face with all newfound maturity and hardness, weariness – and the same old childish hatred in those bright blue irises. "Please." Hermione put all the weight of their years of friendship behind the one word, and Ron just shifted on his feet. Dropped his eyes and then took a deep breath. "No, Hermione." His blue gaze fixed back on her unwaveringly. "We're worried about you. We're _worried_, Hermione."

"Well, as you can see, I'm perfectly fine, Ron. Sitting here having a cup of tea, and perfectly fucking fine," she snapped with brittle impatience. Ron sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair. "What's going on, that you're spending all your time with _Malfoy_? What's happened, Hermione? What has he got over you? What has he told you? Done to you?" The awful part was that Ron seemed truly, genuinely worried, concern and pleading in his voice. Hermione shook her head, "_Nothing_, Ron. Nothing at all." Ron's face twisted, "No. He has to have something over you. You can't seriously be choosing him over us." Hermione gritted her teeth. "I'm not choosing _anyone_, _Ronald_." She bit out his name, hands trembling. He thought that she couldn't make her own choices. He didn't trust her choices. Yes, he might really be worried about her, but he was worried because she wasn't doing what _he_ wanted, what _he _expected. She didn't owe him anything, least of all her _obedience_.

"You spend half your time with him, Hermione! If not more!" Ron protested, voice cracking with emotion, and Hermione felt traitorous, unwelcome tears well up. She didn't want anyone to be hurt, but if Ron insisted on being an arse, she wasn't going to enable him. He would just have to suck it up and bloody well get over it. "I spend just as much time with you, Ron. And if I don't, it's because you have your family and Harry and all the others to spend time with – Draco doesn't." Ron's face was white with anger and his freckles stood out starkly as he half-shouted, "Fuck _Draco_. He's _nothing_. He's a coward who came running to hide behind us when his chosen path got too _real_ for him. He's as evil and filthy as the rest of them, he just doesn't have the fucking guts to act on his disgusting beliefs." Ron sneered at Draco, "Too scared to risk going to Azkaban, like your daddy did."

Draco was hunched over, his hand gripping the mug of tea so tightly that his knuckles were white, and Hermione hadn't missed the way he had flinched with every insult Ron threw at him. "Stop it Ron. Just stop it _now_. I know that you have problems with Draco, and I understand that. But you're judging him for what he was, not what he has become. And that's not fair." It was an effort for Hermione to keep her voice even, and her hand clenched around her wand under the table. She didn't know why – there was no way she could cast a hex or jinx or anything at Ron over Draco. She was too afraid it would irreparably damage their friendship. And as much as Ron was being a complete arse, he was still Ron. He was still one of Hermione's best friends in the world.

"He's a worthless, maimed, pathetic, _coward_."

"Ron! For god's sake, what on earth do you think you're achieving by doing this? Just _stop_," Hermione cried, just as Draco pushed himself to his feet and spat out," Does it make you feel like a man, Weasley? Clutching onto your wand while you mock someone who's unarmed?"

"You vile, despicable son of a whore – I'm more of a man than you'll ever be, you piece of _scum_," Ron snarled and Draco shifted around the table, moving so fast it was like he just _flowed_, so quick that before Hermione had finished turning her head Draco was already standing just behind her chair and facing Ron down. His hair fell over the side of his face, brushing his cheekbone and it was platinum in the sun. Draco's pointed chin was set, eyes sparking silver in the light and shoulders squared, and he looked achingly handsome even as he sneered at Ron, "Then why is it that Hermione spends her nights in my room, rather than yours?" The words cut through the air; an icy betrayal and a lie wrapped up in the truth, and Hermione heard herself gasp, her breath catching in her throat.

"Draco!" His name choked from her lips full of horror and fury, and her hands shook, her face felt drained of every last drop of blood. "You disgusting fucking filth! Don't you _dare_ talk about 'Mione like that!" Ron roared and Hermione moaned softly as she watched the situation fall apart, hand coming to her mouth as Ron's face went red with anger. Ginny grabbed her brother's arm and held on tight as he tried to fling himself at Draco, who stood unmoving and unmoved, face hard and cold. Hermione stared in shock, too stunned to move, her blood turned to ice in her veins. "It's true. And you _know_ it, Weasley. I have no doubt you've watched her sneak back to her own bed, late at night. Watched and wished it were your bed she was crawling into instead of mine. That stings you, doesn't it?" Draco's mouth made a twisted, hateful smile and Hermione wanted to slap him, wanted to gouge his goddamned eyes out, furious at bloody well everyone in the room, herself included.

"You fucking _arsehole_. How _could_ you?" Hermione cried breathless and furious, tears spilling over onto her cold cheeks as she stumbled to her feet. She told herself that Draco was just saying what he knew would hurt Ron the most, that he didn't mean to hurt _her_ too, but it _did_ hurt, and his intent didn't stop it from being any less of a betrayal. How could he say that? Hermione felt sick. "You bloody bastard!" Ron roared and broke free of Ginny's grasp, throwing himself mindlessly at Draco, his wand clattering to the floor. "Oh my _god_," Hermione moaned and went stumbling back as Ron hit Draco and clipped her arm. Her wand flew from her hand as the two men went tumbling to the ground. She heard the back of Draco's head hit the floor with a _thud_ and winced, hand pressed to her mouth so hard that her teeth dug into her lips. She glanced across the room and saw Ginny standing there, looking as white-faced and shocked as Hermione felt. Ginny's eyes met hers, and a look of solidarity passed between them before Hermione's eyes were wrenched back to the two boys.

"You fucking bastard!" Ron was yelling and he ended up on top, and Hermione saw his fist crash down into Draco's face and she heard a crunch as Draco yelped. "For – You – _Stop it_!" Hermione shouted and both boys ignored her as Ron drove his fist into Draco's face again, and again, while Draco tried to shove Ron back, tried to twist his head to avoid the blows. Hermione swore and looked around for her wand. It had skittered under the table and she dropped to her knees. Grunts of pain and gasps for breath filled the air as Ron took out his fury on Draco. Then a yelp Hermione recognised as Ron's caught her attention and she glanced back. Draco was shoving Ron off him with the elbow of his foreshortened arm, the redhead crumpling to the floor, curled up in a ball and clutching his crotch. "You aren't any fucking better than me." Draco scrambled to his feet and hissed at Ron nasally, blood dribbling down thickly from his nose and a split in his eyebrow. "You aren't some noble fucking hero, and I am not just a piece of _scum_." Draco emphasised the last word with a harsh, swift kick to Ron's solar plexus as Ron struggled to his knees, and the redhead collapsed back to the floor, clutching his stomach. "And Hermione does not belong to _you_." Another cruel kick to Ron's stomach and the redhead whimpered and gasped.

Hermione scrambled under the table as far as she could get and stretched out through a veritable maze of chair legs for her wand. She couldn't…quite…get it. Damnit, why wasn't Ginny _doing_ something? "Ginny!" Hermione peered through the chair legs at the younger witch and saw her staring stupidly at the boys, "Ginny, for god's sake!" Hermione yelled as Draco's foot connected hard with Ron's stomach again and the girl looked at Hermione, eyes wide and startled like a rabbit. "Ginny, use _distinguendum!_ Ginny!" And the younger witch jolted as if she'd been shocked into life by Hermione's words, and cried, "_Distinguendum!"_ Draco flew back and Ron was shoved across the floor in the opposite direction, a shimmering shield separating them.

Draco stood panting, his hand a clenched fist and a streak of blood in his hair, more of the viscous darkest-red smearing the lower half of his face so that he looked like some sort of demon, or cannibal. His chest rose and fell hard as he panted for air, and his eyes flicked to Hermione's, grey and hard and _possessive_. She gasped and ripped her eyes away and the air _snapped_. She scrambled further under the table shoving chairs roughly out of the way, swearing as she did, adrenaline and fury still pumping through her and then wriggled out from between all the damned chairs. Draco was still staring at her like he was some victorious caveman who had fought for the rights to her, or a noble knight who had fought to protect her honour, instead of the horrible infuriating bastard he was. His fist clenched and unclenched rhythmically at his side, bloodied lips parted as he stared at her unblinkingly. Her heart thumped quick and hard in her chest like a terrified prey animal racing for safety that it wouldn't reach.

"Can Ginny drop the barrier without you _brawling_ again?" Hermione asked and she sounded angry and disgusted, but also far too breathless, as her eyes were snared by his stare. All hot silver, the blood still dripping from his nose and she felt sick and hot and there was a feeling… "Yes," Draco bit out and just _looked_ at her. "Ginny?" Hermione asked the other girl, and the shield charm shimmered and disappeared. "Cellar." Hermione ground out, pointing with her wand, and the muscles in Draco's jaw twitched but he nodded with a wince and hauled up the trapdoor, stalked down the steps. With a wordless, helpless, _furious_ glance at Ginny, Hermione followed after Draco, dragging the trapdoor shut behind her.

She stormed down the steps, stopping on the bottom one, "What in Merlin's name were you _thinking_?" she cried, "How could you _say those things about me?_" The words were furious and she glared at him as he stood in front of her on the cellar floor, his eyes still silvery and sharp in the bluish light, still fixed on hers. The blood still smeared Draco's mouth and chin and made him look like a pale savage, a demon, a predator eyeing her.

"I – I'm sorry," he said dazedly then, and blinked, eyes clearing a little. "I don't know…shouldn't have…"

"No you _shouldn't_ have. Do you have any idea how much that _hurt_ me? To have you just _use_ me as something to make Ron mad?"

"I just…I didn't think. I just…Merlin, I wanted to make him fucking _suffer_. He… I just wanted to hurt him. I didn't think about…"

"Yes, well, you hurt me too. So maybe you _should_ have thought. I thought I was more to you than – than _that_." Hermione hissed furiously, breath coming in gasps that seemed shallow no matter how much her chest heaved. Then, "_Episkey_," she snapped without warning and Draco winced as his nose straightened with a crack. "_Scourgify_!" She waved her wand again and the blood was gone. "You fucking _bastard_," Hermione hissed, and slapped him as hard as she could. Which was rather. Draco's head snapped to the side and the print of her hand appeared first white, then flushing into bright red on his left cheek. He brought his hand up to touch the mark, wincing at the feel and Hermione stared at him, daring him to say something, anything.

"I'm sorry, Hermione. You do mean more than that to me. Really. You do. I'm so sorry," Draco said with a terrible resigned calm, and turned away from Hermione, eyes the colour of thunderclouds, jaw set and shoulders slumped. "You should be. You should be sorry!" Hermione almost sobbed, dragging the tears back before they escaped and making a funny hiccuping sound instead.

"I – if there was something more I could say or do than just telling you how sorry I am, to make amends for acting like that, then I will say it, do it. I would," he said stiffly, regret clear in every line of his body. Hermione wanted to kick him in the bloody head. Draco glanced at her and recoiled, no doubt seeing the anger printed all over her face. He groaned and swiped his hand over his face wearily, voice pleading as he said, "_Fuck_. Hermione, I'm _sorry_." He paused and then added, "I'll tell Weasley it's not true. I'll tell him I made it up, and that I'm an arsehole, and I'll apologise for kicking the shit out of him."

"You'll _apologise_ to _Ron_?" Hermione asked disbelievingly. She wouldn't ask that of Draco no matter how infuriated she was with him. Not after the way Ron had started the whole thing, and goaded Draco, and been willing and happy to torment someone who couldn't protect themselves. Ronald Bilious Weasley was going to get a good bloody lecture of his own once Hermione was finished with Draco. She was _not _happy with him.

"Yes. If you want me to," Draco grated out unwillingly, but his eyes on hers were serious and sincere. Hermione lifted an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because I was an arrogant, horrible bastard, and I know that. I just – Weasley looks at you like you _belong_ to him, Hermione. Like he has the right to question your decisions, and to say when you're making the wrong ones. To dictate whom you spend your time with. I just wanted to rub it in his face…that you're not his," Draco's eyes went to the ground, and then up to meet hers again, still half turned away from her as he admitted, "And…I wish you were mine. I thought…" His unmarked cheek flushed, but he held her eyes.

"You fucking arrogant…_caveman_! I'm not anyone's! I'm _mine_." Hermione swore at him, frustration and anger all tangled up with that _something_ she kept feeling, which she identified now in her head as lust, and want and need and _like_. Hermione grabbed Draco's shirtfront in both hands and yanked him back towards her abruptly, roughly, fists all balled up in the cotton of his tee shirt. Draco half-stumbled around at Hermione's desperate, furious pull, and she fell against his chest, her mouth crashing onto his, one hand reaching up and fisting into his too-long hair, pinning his lips to hers. He made a soft, hungry sound and Hermione whimpered in return as the sound sent quivers through her every nerve and muscle, made her melt against him even as her teeth nipped at his full bottom lip hard enough to hurt him.

But Draco's lips were warm and eager as they parted against Hermione's, and his tongue tasted faintly like blood as it teased into her mouth, the delicate flicks sending thrills of arousal twisting through her, and she moaned into his mouth, his arm holding her up as she swayed in his grip. Her knees trembled and her blood throbbed like want and need, and she felt sudden, slick wetness as lust made her flesh twitch and her breath judder, her belly cramp with _need_. Draco smelt like sweat and soap, and he needed to shave, and _oh god _his teeth worried at her lower lip gently, tongue swiping over it and eliciting another shivering moan muffled against his urgent mouth, and Hermione's fingers dragged at his hair as she kissed him, hard.

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_Author's Note: _I need to know! What did you think? Was that a good chapter? What did you think of Draco? Was the kiss good? Pleeeease tell me :D

Also, guest reviewers who I can't PM –

Jerry, Thank you so much! I hope you enjoyed this chapter just as much as the last :) Oh, I would absolutely _love _to be able to run away with my computer and do nothing but update this story!

Emllew – I'm so glad you liked the last chapter! Yes, Hermione being drunk was a good way to get her to drop all her worrying and over-analysing regarding her feelings for Draco. I'm glad you liked her lecturing the others, I was worried about whether that scene worked or not :)

Iseult – Thank you! I see your point. My thought process behind why they didn't kiss last chapter was because I think that they were just both too scared to take that next step and put themselves out there. Hermione still wasn't sure what she was feeling, and whether she wanted to acknowledge it, and I think after the intensity of their argument earlier, she was, I felt, a bit more focused on the warm-cozy-snuggles than the hot, hot kissing. The whole scene I thought had more of a…quiet intimacy than steamy-hotness. And Draco of course, would at that point, have been far too vulnerable to make the first move I think. But that's just what was in my head at the time :)

Thank you to all those who have reviewed, and I hope to get more of your wonderful, awesome, helpful feedback :D


	17. Like Honey and Pain

_Author's Note:_ I have decided that I have like, the _best_ reviewers in the world. I love you guys! You make spending time on writing this (getting bloody long!) fic, so, so worthwhile :) Thank you!

This chapter title comes from the song "All That Talking" by The Cat Empire (such a delicious song). Gives me lovely shivers, all that brass. Anyway…

Herein lies much graphic Kissage, people Use Their Words (shout out to Captain Awkward!) to communicate FEELINGS, Ron gets what he deserves, and Draco finds tea and biscuits absolutely terrifying.

I don't know what the hell to make of the shit my brain dredges up and my fingers type down, but I hope you all,

_Enjoy!_

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_**Like Honey and Pain**_

Hermione was hot and clinging to him, her fingers pulling painfully at Draco's hair and making his scalp sting. His nose throbbed, and his eyebrow and all around his left eye felt tender and swollen, and his jaw hurt like hell, and he didn't care. Draco _wanted_ her. His arms crushed her against him, fingers digging rough into her back, and her mouth was warm and wet, and she moaned and whimpered into their kiss. His blood pounded in his ears and Hermione's tongue was slick on his, their teeth clashing as she drove their mouths together, desperate and urgent and angry. He was hard. It had been so long since he had shagged someone…fuck, so long that it might never have happened, and Draco was starving for Hermione. His hand roamed up into her hair and his fingers twined through it, soft silky tangles.

Hermione's teeth nipped and dragged at his bottom lip and Draco heard himself groan, low and greedy. She tasted like tea and smelt like flowers, and her tongue twirled around his, sending arousal right through him in little jolting thrills. Her hand twisted in his hair and the other arm wrapped around his neck tightly as she leaned into him, whimpering low and breathless as his tongue brushed over her teeth. Draco wanted her on his bed. He wanted to drag her damned shirt off and bury his mouth against the swell of her breasts over her bra, soft and warm. To pull her bra off and fasten his lips around her nipples, teasing each one with his tongue and teeth until she arched and writhed under him and begged for him. Draco wanted to hear Hermione beg. Yes, the image of her begging held definite appeal. He was so fucking hard he was aching, and he wanted to yank her jeans down and drive inside her, wet and hot and so damned _good_. Wanted to make her moan and scream…

Hermione ripped her mouth away and panted, "I'm still angry at you." Draco nodded, breathless. "I'm aware of that," he acknowledged indistinctly; he really didn't give a fuck about any of that at this point. He wanted to kiss her, he wanted to bury his hand under Hermione's clothes and search out all the softest parts of her. The wettest parts. "As long as you know this doesn't – hhh – stop me from being – oh my god – angry," Hermione gasped again and then bucked and shivered as Draco bent his head to the nape of her neck and kissed it wetly, tongue trailing from her collarbone up to the delicate shell of her ear. He nibbled on it experimentally while Hermione seemed to hold her breath, body vibrating in his arms.

"Oh…my _god_…" she moaned in a long, shaky exhale, and Draco grinned against her skin. _He_ was the one doing that to her, he was the one making her body tremble and her legs weak. She loved it. Loved the way he could make her feel. "You don't seem very angry," he whispered in her ear, and then suckled on the lobe, and Hermione squirmed and let out a soft mewl. Her fingers dug into his shoulder, "I…am," she insisted and Draco laughed softly on her skin, his breath making goosebumps prickle into life where his tongue had laved over her neck. "Well you aren't doing a very good job of it then."

"Bastard," she gasped and a faint groan fell from her lips as Draco's hand pulled from the tangle of her hair and grasped her arse firmly. His other arm pressed into Hermione's back and he lifted her up into his arms. She clung to him tightly with a squeak and her face buried into his neck, her breath hot on his neck and hair tickling his face. "Merlin, you're deceptively heavy, Granger," he teased her gaspingly; muscles sore from the brief fight with Weasley straining with the warm, clutching weight of her. She felt so good though, her body moulded to his; her thighs squeezing his waist and her breasts crushed to his chest.

He was so damned hard and his jeans were too fucking tight and if he let her drop too much she squashed right down on top of…she slipped and Draco bit his lip _hard_, lifted Hermione up higher. Her arse was firm and luscious and his fingers flexed and his cock twitched. He carried her across the cellar towards his bed, and Hermione seemed determined to distract him; by kissing his throat hungrily, her teeth grazing over the edge of his jaw and nipping at it, her hair falling over Draco's face and half blinding him.

Hermione's mouth sought the edge of his, her lips capturing his lower one and sucking on it hard and Draco groaned and gave in and kissed her as he walked, their mouths meeting hot and messy with the most delicious wet sound and he almost came in his fucking trousers, before he stumbled backward into the table and nearly bit her tongue. "_Fuck_, Hermione, get your damned bushy hair out of my face before we end up on the floor," he panted and she chuckled throatily and scraped her hair back, and then bit him on the chin – in retaliation he was sure.

Draco dropped her on his bed with a bounce and a protesting creak of the bedsprings. Her hair haloed out around her head, and she looked fucking _gorgeous_. Wanton. Hermione Granger sprawled on his bed with her lips kiss-swollen and eyes whiskey in the light, and Draco wanted nothing more than to make her cum and scream and _beg_. Draco smirked; who would have ever thought he would be this hard for Hermione fucking Granger? And then Hermione gasped, "Please, Draco, please," and reached blindly up for him, and Draco crawled onto the bed, holding himself up half over her on the elbow of his maimed arm, and bent his mouth to her throat. She was hungry and frantic still, but Draco had to go slow, or he really _was_ going to cum in his trousers.

Most of him just wanted to pin her to the bed and fuck her hard until he came feeling her wet and warm around him, her eyes squeezed shut and moans jerked from her lips with each thrust. But that wasn't going to happen – not now, not today. "Please," she whimpered again, voice blurring and fingers wrapping in his hair and trying to drag his mouth to hers. He smirked, lifting up on his elbow and looking down at her, dark eyes glazed and pupil swamped, her pink tongue swiping over her lips as she stared up at him. "Please what?" he asked slowly. "Oh _god_… Kiss me, _now_. Please…?" Hermione sounded both impatient and pleading and Draco gently kissed the corner of her mouth. Her chin. The end of her nose. The little crinkle line that appeared between her eyes as she frowned at him in frustration. But if Draco couldn't fuck her, then he was going to taste every bit of her that he could. He would make it slow and sweet and delicious.

Draco kissed her mouth, full and lingering, and then looked down at Hermione again. She smiled at him languidly and her hand lifted to his face, brushed over one cheekbone, traced the line of his jaw. Draco kissed her gently again and felt her lips curving into a smile, watched her eyes crinkle with it, and then she parted her mouth and her tongue grazed over his lips. His hand twitched involuntarily where it lay on Hermione's stomach, and she grinned. Her fingers stroked over the nape of his neck, light touches alternating with the firm scrape of her nails as Draco sucked on the tip of her tongue, kissed his way down to the hollow of her throat. He wanted her mouth – her hand, _anything_ wrapped around his cock. Wanted to cum.

He stifled a small, desperate sound and shifted away from Hermione a little, and she curled toward him, face turning eagerly up to his with lips parted and eyes shut, a faint flush on her cheeks and above the neck of her shirt. Draco's fingers played around the hem of her shirt as he kissed her; lingering teasing kisses as he began his pleasurable exploration. Hermione's stomach was as soft as the rest of her seemed to be, and her flesh twitched under Draco's hand. Her chest rose and fell with her jagged breaths, and Draco longed to just abandon the gentle, teasing touches and shag her. Properly. Bury himself in her – his teeth on her breasts and his cock deep inside her, thrusting hard until she _screamed_.

His questing fingers reached the bottom edge of her bra and wriggled underneath, fingertips brushing the hot curve of one breast. And then he muffled a groan against her throat as Hermione wrapped her slim fingers around his. "I don't…" she whispered hesitantly, and Draco nodded, withdrawing his hand. _Fuck_. He had known, intellectually, that there would be no way in hell Hermione would want to shag him right now, but _shit_. "It's fine," Draco said and he meant it – of _course_ he meant it, but the words still tasted like ashes in his mouth. _Damnit_.

# # #

Hermione lay sprawled on the bed, breath short and feeling dizzy and hot as Draco untangled himself from her and sat up, leaning his head limply against the wall. She could see the reluctance to stop in his eyes, all silver and sharp, but he just let out a soft sigh and his hand went to the crotch of his jeans, _adjusting_ himself. Hermione ostensibly averted her eyes; she may have peeked discreetly, just a little bit. She dragged her shirt back down over her bare stomach – which felt all tingly now from his touch – and bit her lip, letting out a sigh of her own. She stared up at the ceiling, wriggling up the bed so her head lay on the pillow and her feet snugged into Draco's lap. Hermione hadn't been expecting _that_. She took a deep breath, trying to herd her scattered and lust-drunk thoughts back together. That had been… Hermione looked over at Draco, and saw he was watching her, lips swollen from their kisses and his expression taut, hungry – nervous.

"Well…" she said and grinned blissfully up at the ceiling, toes wriggling in Draco's lap. He pinched her toe lightly and she looked at him questioningly, still floating in the aftermath, thoughts scrambled. "What the fuck was _that_, Granger?" he asked and his eyebrow arched up, a smile quirked at his lips. Hermione pulled her foot away and pushed herself up so she sat cross-legged on the bed, "Don't call me _Granger _after we just…" she protested weakly and Draco shot her a long-suffering look, "All right. What the fuck was that, _Hermione_?" She poked out her tongue and his eyebrow rose still further. "Don't tempt me," he said soft and low, and Hermione blushed hotly at the implication, her fingers flying to the frayed edges at the bottom of her jeans and plucking at them. There was a long silence.

Well. This was rather awkward.

The silence stretched on and on, and then finally unable to take the tension any longer, Hermione said the first thing that came into her befuddled head. "So, you…like me?" she asked, and immediately cringed at how inane the question was. Draco smirked lazily, "I thought that was rather clearly implied. With the kissing, and the touching, and the…" Hermione frowned at him reprovingly and Draco snapped his mouth shut at her expression. Looked at her carefully, and she dropped her eyes, forehead all furrowed and mouth pursed, embarrassed. "Now you're making _me_ ask silly questions, Hermione." Draco fidgeted uneasily; worried at his lip, ran his hand through his hair, "Do _you_ like me? Or is that some Gryffindor thing, throwing yourself at the nearest available body after having thrown yourself heedlessly into a fight?" Hermione snorted, "_I_ wasn't the one throwing myself into a fight upstairs. That was _you_. So much for Slytherin cunning." He kept looking at her anxiously, and she realised with a jolt she hadn't answered him. "I-like-you." She said it quickly, as if getting it out fast would make it easier, like ripping off a plaster. It did seem easier somehow.

"I like you," she said again and that blissful, silly grin spread over her face again. Hermione felt lighter, the weight of anticipation and uncertainty dissipating. She had told Draco Malfoy that she _liked_ him, and the world hadn't ended. He laughed, short and quiet, and eyed her with amusement. "Well? Do you…?" she probed, and he just kept looking at her with that jumbled expression of frustration and pleasure. "I'm not going to say it like that, Hermione. I'm not a fourth year admitting my obsessive crush on someone." She frowned. If she could admit it, so could Draco, and he looked at her disappointed expression and finally said reluctantly, "You should know by now that I…care about you. That I am obviously attracted to you. That despite your faults – and they are Legion," She huffed at that, and rolled her eyes, and Draco smirked and continued, "Despite your faults, I find myself inexplicably enjoying your company."

Hermione felt a squiggly, happy warmth settle in her tummy, and she couldn't wipe away that blissful grin. Just like that, it was settled. After everything; all the avoidance and the worry, the tension and the nervousness, it was all out in the open, just like that. And the world really hadn't ended. If Hermione had realised that just admitting her feelings would have such positive results she would have done it days ago – maybe even weeks ago, after that first kiss. But perhaps she hadn't been ready then. Her mind drifted idly to how things had unfolded, wondering whether and how she could have handled the situation better than this – but she didn't really have any previous experience to compare it to. The only romance in Hermione's past had been her longstanding and only ever hinted at crush on Ron, and the fling with Viktor that had begun purely at his instigation. Hermione dismissed her analysis impatiently and found herself thinking instead of the way Draco had expressed his feelings, compared to her small, feeble _I like you_. "You always have to try to outdo me, don't you?" she teased him and Draco shrugged, mouth twitching, "Well that _would_ be true, except I don't have to _try_."

"Git," Hermione accused and crawled over the bed to where Draco sat, feeling oddly shy as she pushed his right arm out of the way, and snugged herself against his side. He seemed unsure of what to do with his arm, and Hermione pulled it down to her waist gently, careful of his stump. His body was tense, and she laid her head back onto his shoulder. "I told you I'm not shallow," she reminded him and Draco let out a little breath, making himself relax, letting his arm curl against her waist. It felt so strange to expect the pressure of a hand on her stomach and feel nothing. But Hermione imagined that, given time, she would get used to it.

_Given time. _And that thought brought Hermione truly back to cold, hard reality again. Once she got her brain past dwelling on the heat of the kisses they had shared, dragged away from dwelling on their admittances of affection, well… That left the larger situation. How did _this_ fit in with the war, the Order, Ron, Harry? How was _this_ going to work, with Draco being an ex-Death Eater and everyone Hermione cared about despising him? It was also rather awkward that Draco's father wanted to murder her, even if the two were…estranged. Hermione didn't want to think about the practical logistics of her and Draco _liking_ each other, but it couldn't be avoided. She wasn't the sort of person who could just take things as they came. Hermione liked her life plotted out neatly.

"What do we do now?" Hermione asked Draco bluntly, and he hesitated before he spoke. "You don't want them to know anything, I imagine." He didn't sound surprised, and that was some small relief at least. Hermione shook her head, "No." She ticked off the reasons on her fingers, "I wouldn't even know what to tell them, it's none of their business, they'll hate you even more, Ron might try to murder you in your sleep…" She craned her head around and looked up at his cool, pale face. "You don't have to justify not wanting to tell them, Hermione. I realise that there are a vast number of reasons you don't want _them_ to know," Draco said without emotion– the flush of arousal gone from his cheeks, and his grey eyes composed as he looked down at her. He didn't look as though they had just been tangled together, snogging desperately. His hair wasn't flopping over his face for once, and apart from the marks from his fight with Ron, Draco looked elegant and unruffled. Hermione knew she probably looked flushed and dishevelled in comparison, her hair fluffing everywhere and her expression anything but calm despite her attempt to be. She leant back against his shoulder again, thinking.

Hermione wished they were still snogging. That was simple; that was easy; that was _extremely_ enjoyable. Her hand slipped onto Draco's thigh and he made a humming sound that thrummed low through his chest. Her mind had recovered from the oxygen deprivation of having her mouth deliciously glued to Draco's, and now it was buzzing with worries and questions. How was she supposed to navigate a situation like this? Hermione didn't know what to do now, and she did _not_ enjoy feeling like that. She _always_ knew the right way to deal with a situation or problem, and if she didn't know then she researched how. Looked it up, read about it, found answers that told her clearly what the specific rules were for dealing with her particular issue. And right now Hermione was operating blind, without any handy, wonderful rules and regulations. Somehow Hermione didn't think there was a Dummy's Guide to: Dating ex-Death Eaters book she could refer to. She had so many questions plaguing her mind and no answers.

Could she lie to her friends about Draco?

Hermione knew logically that just because she and Draco had strong _feelings_, didn't mean that those feelings would necessarily amount to anything lasting. She groaned and rubbed a hand over her eyes, and felt Draco tense in response. "What's the problem?" he asked her uneasily, and Hermione shrugged. "This. Everything. I don't like uncertainty, Draco. I don't like not knowing what to do or what's going to happen. What do we do now? I don't _know_." It came out more frustrated than she had expected, and she growled under her breath, squeezing her eyes shut. Why couldn't her life be simple and tidy? "You don't have to know _everything_, Hermione." Draco sounded suddenly weary as his hand covered hers, his fingers manipulating her fingers; curling them up and straightening them, feeling the bones beneath her skin. She gazed at his hand. Pale and elegant, long fingers and deceptive strength, the knuckles slightly bruised from his fight with Ron. "But I _want_ to," Hermione insisted and Draco sighed. "What is it that you want to know, then?" he asked wearily, resting his chin on the top of her head. It felt lovely.

Hermione nibbled on her lower lip uncomfortably as she tried to catalogue her concerns; she wasn't a person who talked about her feelings and private thoughts with _anyone_ openly. She had never really had the sort of close girl friends that she could discuss extremely personal things with, and Harry and Ron were, well, Harry and Ron. She could talk to Harry sometimes, but not generally about relationships and _feelings_, and Ron, well – her feelings for Ron had been the main thing Hermione had worried about in the past. She didn't know what on earth to say to Draco, her mind blank. "I don't know," she said miserably at last. "Like I just said, Hermione – you don't have to _know_. Just enjoy it. Stop bloody well over-thinking everything. _Why_ you didn't get Sorted into Ravenclaw, I don't know." Draco was annoyed; Hermione could hear it in his voice, like he was trying not to yell at her. She felt even more miserable. "Five minutes ago you weren't thinking. And it was good, wasn't it?" Draco demanded and Hermione felt lust hum to brief life and nodded. "So why can't we just…go with it, whatever it is?" Draco's hand went to her cheek, his fingertips soft and warm on her skin and Hermione twisted her head around, looked up into his eyes; grey and calm and still.

She wanted this. Her stomach flipped and she wanted it more than anything in the world in this moment. Wanted him despite the consequences, whatever they might be. "All right. All right. I'll try…going with it," Hermione agreed breathlessly, heart fluttering nervously in her chest, and then Draco bent his mouth to hers and kissed her. And it was sweet, and slow, and for a moment everything fell away. No worries, no thinking, no analysing, just Draco's soft, warm lips, and his tongue grazing hers and sending shivers thrilling through her, hot and icy all at once.

# # #

The door slammed open and Hermione burst into the room, her eyes passing over Harry and Ginny, and settling on Ron. He sat miserably on the edge of his bed in the middle of saying something to Harry, but his mouth snapped shut as Hermione levelled the full force of her glare on him. "_You!_" she cried. "Go easy on him, Hermione." Harry mumbled as he and Ginny wisely took note of Hermione's expression and hastily cleared out. Hermione ignored Harry's suggestion. She had worked herself up into a righteous fury between the cellar and Ron's room, and she was ready to give him the lecture of his bloody life. Molly Weasley's legendary combination of angry motherly disappointment and guilt tactics would have nothing on Hermione right now.

"Hi Hermione," Ron said weakly, conjuring his most rueful expression and plastering it all over his face; hoping for sympathy, no doubt. Ron's freckles stood out starkly and he looked a little ill, one arm cradling his stomach. "Don't you 'hi Hermione'_ me_, Ronald Weasley!" Hermione snapped out, hands braced on her hips and Ron shuddered reflexively. "Blimey, Hermione. _Please_ don't do that – you remind me of mum and it's bloody terrifying." Hermione took a deep breath, "Good! Good, you – you self-righteous, immature, _childish_ arse! I'm _furious _with you, I'm hardly going to be nice, _am I_, Ronald?" She canted her head to one side and raised her eyebrows, tapped her toes on the floor, eyes boring into Ron's head as she waited for him to answer. He stared at her nervously and swallowed, dropped his eyes to the floor.

"I'm sorry, Hermione." His mouth twitched.

"Too fucking right you're sorry! I can't believe you _did_ that, Ron!"

"I'm sorry I didn't use my wand." Ron's face could have gone down in the dictionary to illustrate stubborn, mulish and unrepentant, and his blue eyes were bright with defiance as he looked back up at Hermione. Hermione shook her head in weary disbelief, jaw agape. Waved her hands uselessly by her sides and then stared at Ron incredulously. "Of course," she stammered sarcastically, "Of _course_ you bloody are. _Obviously_ everything would have worked out fine if you had just hexed an unarmed person. Obviously _that_ would have been the right thing to do."

"Well at least then I wouldn't have spent my afternoon pissing blood," Ron grumbled under his breath and Hermione made a disgusted face, nose crinkling, "God, Ronald. I do _not_ need to know that."

"Maybe you do, 'Mione. What, you've been down in the cellar tending _his_ wounds? That he _deserved_. Meanwhile I've been sitting up here with everyone refusing to heal me because 'I started it' – _apparently_. Never mind the fact that I had to bloody do something after what the bastard said," Ron groused, his eyes sparking with hurt and anger. "Even my _mum_ refused to heal me." He kicked aimlessly at the floor and winced, clutched his stomach tighter and went slightly greenish. Hermione's furious glare reluctantly gave way to a frown. "Well you _did_ start it, Ron." He gave her a betrayed look and Hermione made a harsh sound of resignation, "Do you want me to have a go at healing you?" He shook his head, "Nah. S'all right I guess. Tricia took a look and said I should be feeling better by tomorrow. Your _friend_ the fucking ferret booted me good in the kidneys." Hermione rolled her eyes, "You attacked him first! And despite my offer to try to heal you, I am still extremely, _extremely_ angry with you about that." Ron tried to look hopeful and innocent and Hermione gave him a _look_. He subsided, still hugging his middle and pouting now, sulky.

"Did you not hear what he said about you, or something?" he asked sullenly as Hermione stared him down disapprovingly, her arms crossed and feet planted firmly a shoulder width apart, wand clutched loosely in one hand. Ron shot her yet another betrayed look, his hair falling over his eyes, blue flashes sparking through his fringe at her, "The bloody arsehole all but implied you were shagging him Hermione! You've been nothing but nice to him, even though he never, ever bloody deserved it, and he goes and makes out that you're some filthy trollop, slobbering all over him. Making it seem like you're _interested _in him. _Ugh!_"

Hermione made herself not react. She might have flushed slightly, but she couldn't very well help that, could she? She stood staring at Ron, the words _filthy trollop_ ringing inside her skull, not knowing what on earth to say. Hermione couldn't lie to him right now. She couldn't lie to a three-year-old right now; she was angry, and embarrassed, and felt like bursting into tears and throwing something at Ron's head, and her lies were never that believable even at the best of times. So Hermione just stared at Ron, trying to look as though she was simply still just furious, and unmoved by his arguments, and said, "I heard him." Ron frowned, bewildered, "Then why didn't you say something?"

"If you'll recall, Ronald, I _did_. I was just as furious with Draco for saying such things, as I was with you for being a horrible, cruel git. As I still _am_ with you." Hermione eyed Ron sharply and he glared back, his sulkiness making him look like the immature boy he had been back at Hogwarts, before the war. It wasn't flattering. "He said you were shagging him!"

She lost her patience.

"And that's my business to deal with, not _yours_! I told Draco before and I'll tell you now, I don't bloody well need anybody fighting my battles for me! I am _not_ some swooning maiden, or helpless Princess, or – or – God! I'm_ not _someonewho needs you stupid posturing boys to guard my honour or stake your fucking claim on me! I am _Hermione Granger_, the brightest witch of our age, and I can goddamn well look after myself, _thank you very much!_" Hermione _erupted_ at him, face hot with anger and her voice shaking and shrill with the strength of her rage, and oh it felt so _good_ to get all that out. And then it was out and Hermione clapped her mouth shut, lips drawn into a thin tight line as she glared at Ron, waiting for him to apologise and grovel and tell her that of _course_ she was right, and he had been _enormously_ stupid and he would _never_ do it again.

Ron's eyes widened and his lips curled with pre-emptive horror and contempt, "He wasn't telling the fucking truth was he?" Hermione felt like she was going to explode from the sheer frustration coursing through her body. Never _mind_ that there was a grain of truth to what Ron thought – she had just told him to stick his bloody nose _out _of it, and as usual he had completely missed the point, ignored her, and went his own merry way. "Is that Death Eater bastard shagging you, Hermione?" Ron demanded and Hermione wondered why _now_, now of all times, Ron had to end up being anywhere near close to right. "You – _You_!" she spluttered incoherently, "I just _told_ you that whatever, whoever, _wherever_ I'm bloody doing, it's none of your business Ronald Weasley! But you just can't _listen_, can you?"

Ron's expression crumpled like she had physically smacked him one, one hand coming up to clasp loosely around his throat as if he were going to be sick as he moaned, "You _are_, you're _shagging_ him. _You're fucking_ _Malfoy_." And Hermione finally lost her patience altogether. She was through. She was sick to bloody death of the way Ron refused to pay any attention to nearly anything she said if he didn't want to. Despite the fact that she had saved his life on more than one occasion. Despite the fact that she was always bloody right. Despite the fact that this was none of his business and she had just told him so, multiple times. He just never, bloody, listened. Hermione drew herself up to her full height, and with furious relish, cried, "_Slugulus eructo!_" with the most perfect wand flourish she had ever made. Ron gulped, eyes wide, and as she watched, panting and feeling viciously satisfied, he turned distinctly green and made a retching sound.

"Oh fuck, 'Mione…" he burbled sickly, hand over his mouth, "I'm…sorry 'Mione…take – take the charm – urp – take the charm off…please? "

Hermione marched quickly over and snatched his wand off his bedside table before he could even think of getting to it, and backed up over to the door.

"'Mione…urp – please?" Ron begged and then bent double and vomited all over his carpet – slugs and slime and bile, and Hermione wrinkled up her nose disgustedly. "It'll wear off in about ten minutes, Ronald. You know that. And if you _ever_ treat Draco like that again, _or_ presume to stick your nose into my private, personal business that does _not_ concern you, next time I'll use something _far_ worse than a slug-vomiting charm."

Hermione tossed her hair back, Ron's wand still in hand as she opened the door. "Oh, and by the way, I'm not shagging Draco Malfoy, you dirty-minded _prat_." She grinned and stalked out through the door, shoving Ron's wand at Harry who waited in the hall with eyes wide behind his glasses. Hermione hadn't told a lie – it had been the absolute _truth_. Hermione _wasn't_ shagging Draco. She grinned wider. Harry took Ron's wand without saying a word, and Hermione warned him, "Don't you _dare_ undo that charm before it runs its course."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Hermione," Harry answered quickly, and Ginny stifled a giggle behind him. "Good," Hermione said, "I'll see you later, Harry, Ginny," and marched off down the hallway, her smile so wide her cheeks ached as the sound of Ron's vomiting interspersed with curses reached her ears. It was an extremely satisfying sound.

# # #

That was typical Hermione Granger. Immediately after concluding what had quite possibly been the fucking hottest snog in Draco's life – completely overshadowing all the moments he'd spent with Pansy wrapped around him – she had started analysing what had happened. Started trying to _plan_ what should happen next. Like attraction was a project to be researched, or an Arithmancy problem to be worked out. Draco had never met anyone as frustrating and infuriating as Hermione. Except perhaps Weasley. And Longbottom. Yes, definitely Longbottom. But that was beside the point.

Draco grinned as he ascended the stairs to the dining room, a wide smile that made his eyes crinkle. He felt optimistic for the first time in _years_. Like there was hope that he could actually rebuild something good out of the smouldering rubble that remained of his life. He might have lost everything, but Hermione had kissed him. Had told him shyly and blushing that she _liked _him, and that she was willing to see where this unexpected _thing_ between them went. Draco hadn't expected that, not really. He had let himself fantasise about it, but ultimately… He was a realist – Hermione would probably insist he was a pessimist, and be wrong – and truthfully Draco had been half-expecting her to sneak down and indulge in a few, unspoken of, clandestine snogs, and then one day just stop… And then after the war was over, marry Weasley and have seventeen redheaded devilspawn children. He shuddered at the thought.

Draco pushed the trapdoor open quietly and found the dining room empty, thank Merlin. Draco didn't think fighting with Weasley would have endeared him to any of the Order. In hindsight, it had been a rather stupid thing to do. Except Hermione might not of kissed him if he hadn't done it, so... He eased the door shut again and winced as his knuckles ached, hoping the kitchen would have something cold to wrap around them. Draco had gotten in a few good blows to Weasley's face and head when Weasley tackled him to the floor, but unfortunately the other boy's skull was as thick and hard as a rock, and Draco suspected he'd hurt himself more than the redhead. He didn't care in the slightest right now, still grinning stupidly as he remembered with vivid clarity Hermione in his arms, her body crushed to his, his hand kneading her luscious arse.

Draco felt disturbingly happy, a feeling that was rare enough that the sensation unsettled him.

He walked into the kitchen, lost in thought, and then his head snapped up as a brisk, warm, feminine voice asked, "Would you like a cup of tea, dear?" Draco stared wide-eyed at Molly Weasley, who dusted her hands off on her apron and looked at Draco questioningly. He took a cautious step back toward the doorway. He would face many, many things unarmed, but facing Molly Weasley after he had just been fighting with her son, was not one of those. If he turned and ran, he might be able to get back down to the cellar before she turned her full anger on him. He had only wanted to sneak up to the kitchen for some ice to put on his knuckles, maybe indulge in a sneaky dram or two of firewhiskey. And now Molly Weasley, who surely hated him as much as her children, was confronting him.

_Shit._

"Dear?"

"Ah, I'm sorry? Very sorry," he apologised instinctively and took another step back, certain that any minute now she was going to start screaming at him for harming her precious youngest son. "Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked again, and Draco frowned, grey eyes narrowing in confusion. Hang on a minute – _tea_? Draco's ambushed brain tried to process what the matronly witch was saying. Molly Weasley was offering him tea apparently; Draco's brain informed him. Draco blinked, feeling like he had just been turned upside down and shaken hard. "That would, be, ah, lovely, Mrs Weasley. Much appreciated," he stammered out automatically. His mother had not instilled good manners in him for nothing.

"And biscuits?"

"Ah, yes. Biscuits would be wonderful," Draco said involuntarily, and sat down at the small kitchen table as Molly Weasley pulled out a chair for him with a flick of her wand. A large part of Draco's mind told him that this was just all a prelude to hexing the living shit out of him. A stage of psychological torture. Then again, perhaps she hadn't been told about the fight yet. He could hope. "There you go, Draco, dear. Eat up, won't you? You're far too thin." Molly floated a plate of shortbread and a cup of tea onto the table in front of him, and watched him like a hawk until he mumbled thanks and took a cautious sip of the tea.

"Ron won't be bothering you again, dear. I had a little word with him," Molly said conversationally, and Draco choked discreetly on his tea. "Of course, I fully expect there to be no more _incidents_ like the one earlier from your side of affairs either." The woman's eyes were sharp on his, and Draco quailed inside despite himself. What was it about the damned witch that was somehow so terrifying? "No ma'am," he mumbled obediently. She kept staring expectantly at him, so Draco nervously picked up the shortbread and nibbled on it. "This is, ah, lovely Mrs Weasley. Thank you." Molly smiled thinly, "An old family recipe." She turned to the bench where some sort of cake batter appeared to be getting mixed up, and with a wave of her wand, added a little more of a few things with precision, and then turned back to Draco. "I am a great believer in second chances, Draco, especially for the young. Young people are prone to making mistakes. I should know," she added tiredly under her breath, rolling her eyes heavenward, and then continued with her eyes back on Draco's, "Please make the most of your second chance, dear." The words were said with a smile, but beneath her warmth, Draco could sense the steel-cold hardness. This was not a woman he wanted to trifle with.

"Yes ma'am." He assented hastily, and stuffed some more shortbread in his mouth with a nervous smile. He thought perhaps the entire world had gone mad. Or just him. Maybe this was all a hallucination, and he was really still back at the Manor, having been tortured into unconsciousness, and everything that had happened to him here had been the elaborate fantasy of the insane. And then Hermione walked into the room with a smug, victorious smile on her face, and her eyes softened as they drifted over him. "Hello Mrs Weasley, Draco. Ooh, are those carrot and bran muffins?" Molly Weasley smiled at Hermione as the younger witch slipped into the chair next to Draco's. Her foot nudged his under the table. "They are indeed, dear. They won't be ready for while yet though, I'm afraid. Would you like some freshly baked shortbread instead?"

"I'd love some, thank you Mrs Weasley." Hermione answered, and Draco suppressed a jolt of surprise as her fingers crept and crawled onto his leg, squeezing gently. He glanced at Hermione surreptitiously and her cheeks were flushed slightly. Draco dropped his biscuit onto his plate and his hand crept under the table to cover hers for a brief moment, and her smile widened despite her rather clumsy attempts to appear normal. Her fingers curled around his.

Draco decided that if this was a fantasy, he really didn't give a fuck.

# # #

_Author's Note: _And that's that chapter :D A tasty muddle of slight sexytimes, a serious relationship conversation, angry!Hermione, scolded Ron, and some surrealism for Draco (I have no idea where that came from, but I liked it myself, and felt it added some rather odd lightness to the chapter so I kept it in although I worry about whether Molly was in character or not).

What did you think? Kissing was hot tasty goodness? I'm not very good at writing kissing (I don't know _why_, because I can write far filthier far better but kissing just stumps me). More sexytimes wanted? Is Draco and Hermione's relationship going realistically and in character, d'ya think? Did you enjoy seeing Ron get his comeuppance, and was Hermione _angry_ enough? Was Molly Weasley in character? Isn't confused!Draco just adorable? I love to hear all your tasty thoughts – my muse is greedy!

People I can't PM:

Husky713 – No girl talk with Ginny yet, I'm afraid, but it is on the cards for the future. And I hope the Ron-shaming was shame-y enough for you! :p Thank you for commenting!

Guest – Was this update fast enough for you? Hehe. Thanks heaps for commenting!


	18. Bending the Truth

_Author's Note:_ Wow, I can't believe this story has made it past a hundred reviews! That's amazing, and I say to all those of you review – you are also amazing! Thank you so much :)

The title is from "The Small Print" by Muse.

This chapter was a bit difficult to get started, and I'm sorry it's taken so long to get to you all! I was (and still am a little bit) at a point in the story where I know where the story is going to be in eight chapters, but between here and there is slightly jumbled. I know what I want events I want to include, but the order of said events was/is confusing me a little.

Plus RL has been unexpectedly _busy_ – it's been one of those weeks :p

But here is the next chapter, in which the – up until now – rather background 'main' plot is taking a step into the foreground of the story. Exciting things are afoot!

(Also: It has been not quite a week since the end of the last chapter in the story's timeline. Approximately. Just so you know. Although in general my approach to time in stories is – some has gone by. How much? I don't know…some?). Anyway,

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Bending the Truth**_

"I've been thinking," Draco said and looked up from the game at Hermione, who was glaring at the board ferociously. "Hermione? Are you listening, or trying to use wandless magic to set the game alight?" She glanced up, startled. "What? Oh, you've been thinking? About what?" Draco grinned at her, feeling exceedingly pleased with himself. "Horcruxes." Hermione had told Draco about them a few days ago, after Potter had gone spare at Lupin for not doing anything on the matter.

Draco had been sitting in the lounge bent over an old desk with Hermione, trying to decipher an intercepted owl message, and Potter had just…cracked slightly. The old wireless had been on the program that every night at eight pm sharp, relayed news to those on the Order's side of the war. On that particular evening the news had been mostly depressing. As always.

Draco didn't know why that lot listened to it. If it were up to him, he would rather _not_ spend his evening being depressed by yet more death and despair. No, Draco could think of _much _more pleasant ways to spend an evening – he looked across the Risk board at Hermione and smirked to himself.

But the news that particular night had been of two more blood traitor families, Sillyfoots and Caulk, who had disappeared from their homes some time ago. Apparently, they had now reappeared; dismembered, their remains strung on a rope and festooning the front of a now disused Order house in Hogsmeade. Draco hadn't really been paying that much attention – in fact he had actively tried not to listen to it, but Hermione had made a sickened sound and laid down her quill. "That's awful," she had said, and Draco had silently agreed, but aloud replied quietly, "It's war. And you're reacting exactly the way the Dark – you-know-who – would want you to." She had been a little horrified at him for that, but Draco refused to sugarcoat things.

Then Draco and Hermione had looked up across the room, dragged out of their staring match by the sound of Potter swearing. The Boy-Who-Lived had been white with anger, and trembling as though he was about to pitch a fit. "Harry?" Ginny Weasley had asked and been ignored as Potter had stood and glared at Lupin – all snuggled up by the fire with Nymphadora. "This is why we have to get the horcruxes! This! This bloody war isn't going to end until they're destroyed, and you aren't doing anything – won't let me try to get them – and _people are dying!_"

Draco had never heard mention of anything called _horcruxes_ before, and his curiosity had been piqued. Lupin had frowned and extracted himself from the arms of Draco's cousin, and flicked his eyes over toward Draco, frowning and nodding. A blatantly obvious warning for Potter not to talk about these _horcruxes_, whatever they were, while Draco, ex-Death Eater, was in the room.

For the past several days the Order had trusted Draco enough to let him assist Hermione with research and deciphering, under what they thought was her 'strict supervision', but that was only after Hermione had insisted, and demanded, and very nearly pleaded on his behalf. _Let him give us a chance to prove himself_, she had said the day after Draco had been allowed out of the cellar, and the next day they had reluctantly agreed.

But that evening, that Potter had cracked, the boy had ignored Lupin's silent order to shut up, and opened his mouth and said, "You have to let me do something! I can't just sit here while people _die_ while we _know_ where the cup is! When we should be hunting the diadem!" Draco had wanted to hear more, but Lupin had said sharply, "Not here, Harry." The man had clapped his hand firmly on Potter's shoulder, and guided him none too gently from the room, leaving Draco with a most intriguing mystery.

So later that night, after a languorous, enjoyable, _frustrating_ snogging session with Hermione, Draco had asked her what exactly _horcruxes_ were. And she, of course, had told him everything. And in doing so, given Draco the best chance he had gotten yet to gain the Order's trust. What better way to defuse their contemptuous mistrust by coming up with a plan to destroy a Horcrux? So Draco had spent the past two days racking his brains for ways to acquire one of the horcruxes, and now he thought he might have found the solution.

"Horcruxes?" Hermione asked him, picking out three little soldiers and after a moment of indecision, placed them on Kazakhstan. Draco smirked; he was going to win – again. "Rowena Ravenclaw's lost diadem, to be exact." Hermione gave him a long look, "What about it?"

"I think I might know where it is," Draco announced with relish, and watched Hermione's face cycle through a variety of emotions. She was terrible at disguising her feelings; Draco was just amazed no one in the Order had picked up on her behaviour toward Draco. Although Nymphadora seemed to suspect something, from the suspicious little glances she flashed the two of them now and then. But that might just be because she was a Black, not a noble Gryffindor like most of the others. Right now Hermione had settled for disbelieving but hopeful, "Really?"

"No. I'm lying," Draco answered and then laughed when her face fell, "Of course I'm not lying. Honestly, Hermione. Do you not trust me at all?" She flashed him an expression that told him very clearly to shut it, and said, "Where do you think Voldemort hid it, then?" Her eyes had brightened and the frown she had been nursing throughout their game of Risk had vanished, the game completely forgotten as she stared at Draco with rapt interest.

"It's only a possibility, and not a certainty…but I think it's in the Room of Requirement." Draco said, smirking down at the game board, a sea of black pieces, and Hermione's large group of red soldiers and cannons huddled on Kazakhstan in a fruitless attempt to protect it. Hermione stared at him, confused. "The Room of Requirement? But why haven't the Order found it yet then? We have people based in there permanently." Draco felt a little uncomfortable now. The reason that he had thought of the Room of Requirement was not one he enjoyed reminding Hermione of. "Remember the, ah, the vanishing cabinet?"

"The one you let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts through?" she asked snippily, and Draco winced. "Yes. That one."

"I remember it. What about it…_oh_, the place where things are hidden! You think you-know-who stashed the diadem in there! And it's been there ever since? Right under our noses?"

"That's my theory. However there's only one way to find out if I'm right, and it's not exactly a low risk mission. You'd need to send everyone based in the Room back through the tunnel to Aberforth Dumbledore's pub, but leave a small team in the room, to go out into Hogwarts and summon the Room in the form of the place where things are hidden. And then you'd have to search the Room for the diadem…and then flee with it back into the Room once it has re-transformed into its Order base form, and then figure out a way to destroy it…" Draco trailed off. It was hardly a foolproof plan, and his theory might not even be correct, in which case it would be a large risk for nothing. But if he was right…

Hermione seemed to be following his line of thought. "If you're right, Draco, then this could…it would be…amazing! A real, concrete victory for the Order! Not that most of them could know the _truth_ of it, being that we have to keep the existence of the horcruxes a secret, but…" Hermione beamed at him and stood abruptly, leaning over the table heedless of the game board, to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him firmly on the lips. "You're wonderful!" she murmured happily and Draco took advantage of the moment and Hermione's parted lips, and flicked his tongue over hers, drew her lower lip into his mouth and sucked on it, letting it go with a soft sucking sound. Hermione kissed him back exuberantly, and her mouth warm and pliable, her tongue sending delicious tingles through his blood.

Draco gripped Hermione's hip and pulled at her, and she came up onto the table on all fours, latching her mouth eagerly back down to his. His hand crept up beneath the hem of her Muggle hoodie and top, and he discovered his suspicions earlier had been right – Hermione Granger wasn't wearing a bra. Oh fuck. He groaned and cradled one breast in his hand, and Hermione made a surprised mmphing noise, but just kissed him harder as his hand gently caressed her breast. The skin was so soft, and the curve so warm and firm, and then his probing fingers found her nipple and Hermione squeaked and moaned as Draco rolled it gently between his fingers. He plucked at it and felt her shiver, his blood redirecting in a flood of arousal.

Why did he do this to himself, he asked silently. It was torture; kissing her, touching her wherever she would allow it, and then getting so fucking frustrated that he imagined even an hour in a cold shower wouldn't ease his lust. But he didn't want to stop. Draco loved the taste of her, the way she nipped at his lip and then soothed the bite with her tongue, how she made those soft little whimpers. His hand slid down over her side, splaying flat on her back as he kissed from her mouth down her throat, nibbling at the hollow there where her blood pulsed.

And then she drew away and Draco groaned with the inevitable frustration. _Fuck._ "Sorry," she panted as she scrambled back off the table and reclaimed her seat, flushed and hair curling in tendrils around her face, eyes bright and lips plump and kiss-reddened. "Your soldiers were jabbing my knees." She snorted and laughed at that, and went pinker, and Draco raised an eyebrow. "Did I miss something?" he asked a little breathlessly, and Hermione blushed brighter and said reluctantly, "It's a Muggle thing," she paused and looked away, "Soldier is an old term for a man's…" She seemed unable to go on, but Draco understood, and smirked at her discomfort. "Ohhh. Soldier? _Really_? I don't think I'm ever going to understand Muggles."

He looked down at the game board – half off the table, with his soldiers – Muggles really were _weird_ – strewn everywhere. "I bet you did that on purpose," he told Hermione lightly as he surveyed the devastation. "What?" she asked and Draco waved at the board, shifting in his chair as his trousers uncomfortably restrained the erection that hadn't yet realised it wasn't going to get what it wanted. "Conveniently destroying the game before you suffered your crushing defeat." Hermione snorted, "Defeat? I was holding my own." Draco gave her a look and said dryly, "You had _one_ country left, Hermione. _One_. If you thought you had even the slightest chance of winning, then your grasp of tactics is far worse than I thought." She huffed but didn't debate the issue, a smile playing at her – delicious – lips as she started gathering up the scattered pieces.

"It's a good plan, and a good theory, Draco. I think it's worth attempting, and I'm sure Remus, Kingsley and Harry will agree." Hermione said, and Draco drew breath, trying to figure out how best to go about the next part of his plan. "I need you to promise me something." Hermione looked up, the flush having faded from her cheeks, but her eyes still whiskey-rich as she frowned curiously, "What?" Draco tipped a handful of soldiers into their little container. "I want you to promise to let me be the one to tell them." That was the way to word it. There was no way Hermione would refuse him _that_. "You want them to trust you," she concluded from what he had said, and Draco nodded – that was true. "All right."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise," Hermione said obediently, and then canted her head to the side, "I would have let you anyway. You know that. You don't have to make me _promise_ things." Draco fidgeted, feeling a little guilty about what he was going to do. "I know, but…you see…I'm not going to tell them anything they can actually use until they agree to let me go on the mission to retrieve the diadem. And allow me to actively participate in Order missions in general – or rather, at least the missions you're a part of." Hermione gaped at him. Draco fidgeted some more, turning a cannon over and over in his fingers, and glancing up at her through his fringe – still long enough to fall in his eyes, despite the trim Hermione had given him the other day. She was still gaping, hand poised frozen in midair with a fistful of soldiers.

"Hermione," he asked cautiously and she unfroze. "You bastard! _You_ _Slytherin bastard!_" she hissed 'Slytherin' like it was the worst insult she could think of, and threw her handful of soldiers at him. Draco flung his arm up over his face and tried very hard not to laugh as she stood and glared furiously down at him, incandescent with rage. "You_ manipulative_, _deceiving_, _evil_, _horrible_, _git!_" she punctuated each insult with a cannon flung at his head, and Draco stood up, rounding the table, and she backed away from him, red with anger and holding up a handful of cannons threateningly. As if tiny Muggle plastic things could somehow terrify him and ward him off. It was rather cute, actually. Hermione was always strangely appealing when she was furious – in a frightening, blotchy kind of way.

Draco advanced on her, hands held up in a gesture of peace. "I'm sorry, Hermione, I am, really, but I knew if I just asked you outright, you wouldn't want me to. And even if you were fine with me going on missions, there would be no chance in hell that the other Order members would be. I know you, and you wouldn't be able to threaten to withhold the plan until they agreed to let me go on active missions. It's not in your nature."

"So you _lied_ to me?"

"I didn't _lie_, exactly." Draco hedged, and Hermione shook her head, pointing a finger at him angrily, still backing up across the cellar away from him. "You tricked me! It's essentially the same thing, and you bloody well know that, you –!" A cannon flew through the air, pinging harmlessly off Draco's chest, and then four more in quick succession struck his face, chest as she yelled, "You _tricking_, _deceitful_, _infuriating_ _arsehole!_"

"All right, so those accusations might be somewhat more correct –"

"You _Slytherin!_"

"Not an insult, Hermione," he couldn't help smirking and Hermione said a furious, frustrated _oh_,and then her back was against the wall and Draco grabbed her wrist as she tried to hit him. "I'm sorry I tricked you," he said low and calm, and although she still glared up at him, she stopped yelling, at least, "How am _I _supposed to trust you when you do _this_ sort of thing? What if they refuse? I can't keep quiet knowing what I know!"

"They won't refuse. They'll be backed into a corner – there's no way Potter will let a chance to get a Horcrux just slip by because of me." Draco's hand released Hermione's, and she rubbed her wrist, still glaring at him, although sulky and hurt now rather than furious. "I could tell them anyway," she threatened unconvincingly, and Draco gave her a knowing look. "You promised me, Hermione. You _promised_." She exhaled sharply and thwacked him lightly on the arm, leaning back against the wall and sighing. "You're a bastard, you know that, Draco Malfoy?"

"I'll take your word on it."

"You're taking advantage of _my_ unwillingness to break a promise so that you can blackmail the Order into letting you go out on missions when you _know_ full well that I don't want you to." Resentful and hurt brown eyes looked up at him and Draco felt a stab of guilt, which he pushed back down resolutely. "And you told me first, so that I would try to convince the Order that they _have _to listen and give you permission to participate in missions, because I know how important the information is," Hermione finished.

"I really am sorry."

"No you're not. If you were sorry, you wouldn't do this to me – put me in this position."

"All right, so I'm not sorry exactly…but I do feel terrible that you're upset," Draco tried to soothe Hermione, and his hand stroked from her tense shoulder down to her elbow, and then back up again. She didn't shake him off, which he took as a sign that she wasn't going to start hitting him or throwing things at him again. But she didn't look any happier either. "If they refuse, and won't budge on the issue, then I'm telling them. I'll give you two days to try to change their minds, but after that if they're still refusing, and you still won't give them the information, then I'll bloody well…break my word, and tell them," Hermione said firmly, the words sounding as though they pained her; she took her promises very seriously, as Draco had expected.

"They won't refuse," he said confidently, and Hermione didn't look so sure, "What if they use _veritaserum_?" Draco grinned, "Then that gives me a week at least; I know you've run out again, I asked Luna." Hermione shook her head, "You really thought this over, didn't you?" Draco kept grinning, and she gave him a scathing look. "I promise, that if they initially refuse – which won't happen – then if they haven't changed their minds in two days, I'll tell them myself."

"You promise, hmm?" Hermione asked with eyebrows raised and expression wry, and Draco nodded, "I swear."

"Fine." Hermione let Draco draw her into his arms, but turned her face away when he tried to kiss her. It hurt. "You ever do this again, and I will hex you. Understood?" Draco smirked to himself, Hermione's hair tickling his face as he kissed the top of her head. "I understand." She harrumphed, "So you won't do it again?"

"I can't say that, Hermione. I don't make promises I might not be able to keep. But if you hex me for it…well, that's a consequence I can accept," Draco said carefully and Hermione emitted another infuriated _oh_, and thumped him in the chest.

# # #

"I really don't get what you see in Malfoy."

"What?" Hermione tensed, fingers tightening around the laces of the charmed leather bracers she was awkwardly fitting to her forearm, fear freezing her features. Her mind chittered with panic. Surely Harry couldn't know. Could he? Wouldn't he have hexed Draco into oblivion if he knew? "Well, he still seems like a right prick to me. I don't know what you like about his company." Harry's tone was casual and relief made Hermione sag. She had read too much into Harry's words. She was being too paranoid. She and Draco had been very careful to only act friendly in front of anyone else; there would be no way anyone could know. "I don't know," she said thoughtfully, "I think if you were nicer to him, then he'd be nicer to you, to be honest. He's very…defensive."

"He's a prat." Harry grunted as he sat down on Hermione's bed and jerked on his calf-high boots, and Hermione shrugged. "Of course. He's Draco Malfoy, what do you expect." But he was _her_ prat, and the thought was one that made her feel all fuzzy. "But he's not malicious, or horrible. Just a bit prickly. I don't _know_, Harry. I like him – I can't explain _why_ in simple list format though."

"Well obviously you like him if all the bloody time you spend with him is any indication," Harry answered sulkily as he buckled closed the over-shirt he wore that reminded Hermione a little of a bullet-proof vest in design, except that it was made of body-hugging leather instead of layers of Kevlar. "Well everyone else despises him, you included, except for maybe Mrs Weasley. I'm not going to hate him to, just because you want me to." The chausses fit Hermione well, and were easier to put on than the bracers, but they still felt strange and unwieldy as she slid them up over her legs. Harry hummed thoughtfully and Hermione frowned up at him, fingers pausing in their work. "Just give him a chance, Harry. I don't expect you to _like_ him, but you can at least be civil, instead of either treating him like dirt or pretending he doesn't exist."

"Hermione…"

She jerked one of her boots on; soft, buttery leather with soles that, although tough were like a second skin – flexible, grippy and silent. "No, Harry. You need to treat him civilly – for the sake of the mission, if nothing else. We can't afford friction out there tonight." Hermione had him there, and they both knew it. Harry shoved a hand through his perpetually messy mop of hair, exposing the scar on his forehead and looking both hard and vulnerable as he sighed. "All right. I'll try." Hermione glanced up and smiled at him, nearly unbalancing and hopping on one foot as she tried to pull on the boot, and a soft snort came from the doorway.

Hermione looked up with a start, saving herself from falling onto the floor in a graceless heap only by falling against the wall first. She heaved a frustrated sigh, knowing just from the short snort of laughter exactly who had been laughing at her. Her hair fell around her face as she finished pulling the snug boot on, "Draco," she greeted him, and she could hear the smile in his voice as he replied, "Hermione." A pause, and then in a crisper tone, Potter." There was a longer pause, and then, "Malfoy," Harry answered. Hermione looked up, having triumphed in her battle against the boot, and her eyes widened a little at the sight of the two boys – men really. And the fact that they were most definitely all grown up was far more obvious right now. In the speciality Auror armour they had obtained for this mission, they seemed utterly alien in comparison how Hermione usually saw them.

She was wearing the same as them, and so could list the entire outfit in her mind, a host of words that were unfamiliar to her; high necked sleeveless jerkins, spaulders covering their shoulders, rerebraces on their uppers arms, bracers on their forearms, leather chausses that covered their entire leg, and the calf high boots, all in charcoal leather. Beneath were light black clothes Mrs Weasley had bought at the next village over – long-sleeved black Muggle tee shirt, and leggings. Harry had _not_ been pleased about the leggings, but they needed something light and comfortable to stop the armour from rubbing.

Both boys looked so much older, clad entirely in the worn, dark Auror armour. It had fallen out of favour several generations ago, and only Madeye Moody had worn anything like what they wore now. These sets of armour had been dug out from god knew where, and once the rebounding, and warding charms on them had been strengthened they _seemed_ as good as new. Hermione was all in favour of the best protection possible, and being as the armour wasn't designed to withstand physical weapons but spells, it was thin enough not to restrict movement. She just wasn't quite used to wearing so much leather.

Draco was a knife blade in the uniform; hard, and all sharp edges, flinty eyes and his shock of pale hair, slicked back almost like how he wore it when they were just children. He looked thin, starved – dangerous. The man you didn't know was there until his blade sank in your back, or his silent _somnium _had already crumpled you, she thought, and shivered. Harry looked somehow completely different to Draco, despite it being exactly the same armour. He looked bulkier, like a soldier, a leader, one of those men that people followed into battle and knew that with him before them, they would not fall. He looked like a _man_, and a hardened, experienced fighter at that, and his bright green eyes were narrowed on Draco.

Hermione Blinked and before the unspoken enmity between the two men could ignite with a word, said, "Harry, why don't you go check if Lupin's ready? I'll be down in a minute. I just need to get these silly bloody rerebraces tightened." Harry frowned at Draco, but nodded shortly, "Sure, Hermione," and sidled past the other man with eyes still narrowed. It was not much of an effort to be friendly on Harry's side of things, Hermione thought, but at least he had greeted Draco, which _was_ more than he usually did. "Need some help?" Draco offered, watching her with a smile in those sharp, dangerous eyes and Hermione smiled and held out her arm, "Would you? These things are driving me mad." He strode over with a faint whisper of oiled leather, and Hermione held the rerebrace steady as Draco tightened it, rather deftly for someone with only one hand.

"Are you sure you can manage?" Hermione asked anxiously, for what must have been the hundredth time, and Draco's lips curled humourlessly up and he hummed assent. "I told you before, Hermione, I can duel perfectly well with my off hand." Hermione wasn't convinced, but there was nothing she could do about it now, anyway, other than watch out for him as best she could. "One of the benefits of being a Malfoy, hmm?" she asked as he began strapping her jerkin shut, even though Hermione was perfectly capable of doing that herself. His hand slipped _accidentally_ over her breast and squeezed, before lightening quick doing up another strap. _Pervert_, she thought with affectionate annoyance. "Yes; early broomstick lessons, the best possible tutors in duelling, and a career path in evil all laid out for you," Draco said laconically, and Hermione winced. "Sorry," she mumbled and he shrugged, shook his head, "No. I'm sorry. Just tense."

"Nervous?"

"I always am before a mission," he answered casually and Hermione realised the meaning of that with a sudden sharp shock – missions as a Death Eater the missions he went on as a _Death Eater_ when he probably saw innocent people killed or tortured or maybe tortured them himself – her brain jabbered frantically at her. His past had a way of arising in Hermione's head most unexpectedly. Most of the time she just…forgot about it. And then he said something like _that_ and it all hit her like a truck. She still hadn't gotten used to it. "Me too," Hermione answered, trying to hide her discomfort, and Draco did up the last buckle and sighed wearily, looking her up and down and checking the fit of things with a tug here and there. "The chausses fit well enough?" Hermione nodded, "They're fine. I don't know if I'll be able to get used to them though."

"I know what you mean. But you'll adjust, and it makes good sense to me to have them on. We're going to be in tight spaces tonight. Possibly dealing with a hell of a lot more enemies than there are us, and rebounding spells, friendly fire…I'm just glad we found enough sets of these things."

"And that Colin remembered them in the first place." It had been Colin Creevy who had come across some very, very old pictures of Aurors in the uniforms. Hermione still wasn't sure why they had fallen out of favour. The Auror who had dropped the armour off had seemed to think it had something to do with the uniforms making Aurors lazy with their blocking, and relying on the armour too much, but Hermione wasn't sure if he really _knew_ or was just guessing at the reason. Either way, Hermione didn't plan on _relying_ on very old armour that she knew almost nothing about – as far as she concerned, it was only there in case she blocked and the spell got through anyway. From what the Auror had said, it would turn a _stupefy_ into a mild momentary dizziness, and a cutting curse into a light slash, and so on.

"I don't want you focusing on me tonight. You understand that?" Draco said suddenly, putting his hand on her shoulder and looking down at her intently. Hermione suddenly felt slightly ill at the thought of what they were going to do. Just a small group entering Hogwarts; a place now crawling with Death Eaters and wannabe-Death Eater students, all of who would most likely not hesitate to torture or kill on sight. Hermione wanted to reassure Draco, but she couldn't lie to him. "I don't believe you can duel as well with your left," she admitted shortly, his eyes boring into hers. Draco shook his head, "I can't. I can't, it's true. But I can hold my own. I _will_ hold my own, and I will _not _have you die because you took your eyes off the bloody Death Eater aiming his wand at you, to check on _me_." His eyes were hard and desperate, "I won't have you getting hurt or killed because of me, and if you can't agree to let me look after myself, I will tell Potter and have him bloody lock you in the cellar if need be, to keep you safe."

"What are you going to tell him? He's not going to believe you. He'll think you're up to something, plotting something! What reason are you going to give him to explain me worrying about you? That we're _friendly_?" Hermione was as vehement as she could be while still speaking quietly; they couldn't afford to be overheard. Which was exactly why Draco couldn't say anything to Harry – because the only way Harry would believe him would be if Draco told Harry the truth about his relationship with Hermione. _Oh._ He wouldn't. Would he?

"I'll tell him about us," Draco said, hand still firm on her shoulder and eyes pinned on her face. Hermione felt her stomach sink. Of course he would. This was Draco Malfoy, after all. "He wouldn't let you go on the mission either, then! In fact, you probably wouldn't be _able_ to, after Ron got through with you. Draco, you can't!" Draco didn't react, just looked at her and said, "I don't care. This mission is _dangerous_, Hermione. Hogwarts has become a major base of operations for the Death Eaters – this isn't going to be some raid, or minor battle. If we get caught in the hallways as the Room Changes, they are going to be _on_ us, and they _will_ outnumber us. I'm not having you distracted, d'you understand?" Hermione bit her lip and swore at him, and then relented, "Yes. Fine. I won't…be distracted by you."

"You'll focus on the battle, and _not_ me? You'll focus on keeping yourself alive?"

"Yes. I promise," Hermione said reluctantly, and Draco smiled at her. His eyes flicked to the doorway, and his head canted to the side as he listened. Then when he was convinced no one was coming, he bent his head and kissed her, gentle and tender, hand curling around her side.

"You won't be distracted by _me_?" Their foreheads were pressed together, noses touching, and Draco had gone cross-eyed trying to focus on Hermione's eyes. It was a good look for him, she thought with a shaky smile, laughter bubbling silently inside her, and her hands cupped his face, thumbs stroking over the angles of his cheekbones. "You have to promise too, Draco." The corners of his eyes crinkled with a smile, and he said," You're learning. A few days ago you wouldn't have asked me that." Hermione smirked, "You're rubbing off on me."

"Not as much as I'd like to," he answered and his hand squeezed her bum and Hermione huffed a laugh. "You can't distract me. Now promise you won't neglect your own defence and protection and safety to check on me." Draco considered the request for a moment, and frowned, but at last said, "I promise."

Hermione felt a little easier about the mission once she heard those two words, but her stomach was still all tied up in knots, and her heart thudded hard and jagged in her chest. And then Draco pulled away – they had been too intimate already, what if someone _saw_ them? – and all that warmth and concern smoothed from his face, leaving only tension and hardness. "I'll see you downstairs," he said coolly, and left the room, boots silent on the floor, and Hermione felt very alone.

She combed some of her dwindling, precious supply of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion through her hair to tame it, and braided it into a single plait. Tonight of all nights Hermione didn't couldn't afford to have it get in her face and obscure her vision – it was worth using some Sleekeazy, even though her last pot of the wonderful stuff had nearly run out. And it wasn't like she could just stroll into Hogsmeade and buy more, was it? Not that she had reason to use it that often anyway; she didn't mind her bushy, wild hair normally. She stared at herself in the mirror. Wand in a hip holster, all clad in leather with her braid draping over her right shoulder; Hermione would have looked like a real warrior woman, a Joan of Arc – if it wasn't for her frightened brown eyes set in her frightened white face. She frowned at her reflected self and headed out her bedroom door, in the armour that felt heavy and strange, worrying about Draco, and Harry, and everyone else involved, including herself.

# # #

"Retreated down here, hmm?" Hermione descended the steps, rolling her shoulders, as she grew accustomed to the feel of the Auror armour. "Neither Potter nor I want to spend any more time with each other than we have to. Although I must say, he has been remarkably polite tonight." Draco arched an eyebrow and smirked from his sprawled out position on his bed. Hermione tried to grin but it felt unnatural on her face as adrenaline pumped through her veins in anticipation of the dangers she would soon be facing. "I know you overheard us talking, don't even _try_ to pretend you didn't." Her voice sounded tight to her own ears, and she couldn't figure out if she was imaging the effect, or if she really did sound that strained.

"Still nervous?" Draco asked, and Hermione just nodded wordlessly. She just wanted it all to be done – she wanted to be out there, on the mission. She hated this _waiting_; it was driving her crazy with anxious tension. "Potter said it won't be long 'til all but McGonagall are evacuated to Aberforth's. Not much longer to be waiting."

"It's the waiting that's the worst part, for me. When I'm actually fighting…I don't really have _time _to be properly scared. I mean, I _am_ scared, terrified even – but it's not the same. In battle it's _instinct_ scared. Right now it's a mental, dwelling, imaging the worst case scenarios kind of scared, that just eats away at me." Hermione sat down at the table with a loud sigh, trying to _breathe _the tension out of her. "What did you used to do, to not go mad before a mission?" Draco shrugged, "Nothing much." But his eyes flashed icy, and Hermione knew his tiny changes in expression well enough now to know that he was holding something back. "Tell me," she ordered, her mind poring over the things that even a half-hearted Death Eater like Draco might have done to ease tension, and not liking any of the answers. "You don't want to know," he insisted coldly, eyes probing her face, and Hermione frowned, "No, actually, I _do_."

"It's past. Not relevant anymore. Besides, it's um, personal, Hermione. Really."

"_Oh._" Then after a long moment, Hermione couldn't help asking, "You mean…um…sex?" She said the last word in a tiny voice, ducking her eyes and fiddling with the laces on her bracers.

"No, and I don't have to tell you what it was, either," he answered shortly and there was a squeak of the bedsprings, and then Draco's legs half came into view of Hermione's lowered eyes, and his hand batted hers away from her bracer. "Don't do that, for Merlin's sake, you'll ruin the fit. _Fuck._ If it's annoying you, I'll fix it."

"It's _fine_. What did you do, then? What did _Death Eaters_ do?" Hermione pushed snappily on instinct, and Draco's hand snatched back from her bracer. She moaned silently and wished she could take her words back as soon as she said them; why would she bring that up? She was nervous and snippy, and far too emotional – and it had just slipped out. And hurt Draco. And _why_ couldn't she have just kept her mouth shut?

"Why do you ask me these _fucking_ questions?" Draco stared down at her, cold and angry, and sounding just as tense and nervous as her, "Is it your way of punishing yourself for what we have? Our…relationship? You remind yourself constantly that I used to be scum? Is it some sort of _punishment_ for you, Hermione?" He seemed genuinely upset and his jaw was tense and his hand balled into a fist as he waited for her to answer. Hermione flinched at his words and biting tone, and shook her head hard. "No. I just… I'm – wondering…"

"Oh, just wondering, hmm?"

"Y-yes."

"All right then. I can tell you this about what Death Eaters do." Draco said with hard, cold brightness, "The Death Eaters kept girls on hand. Muggles mostly. Young. Our age, maybe a little younger. Some under the Imperius, some not. It was a _tradition_ for the prisoners captured in past battles to provide a release for their captors, before the captors went out and brought back _more_ prisoners."

Hermione went white.

She felt sick.

"Did you…?"

"It was hard to refuse and not create suspicion. But even before I changed my mind, I just – it didn't – once, I – well, there was one time I was not averse to taking advantage of a girl under the Imperius," Draco said stiffly and with difficulty, and Hermione looked away from him, unable to meet his eyes, disgusted. He had…he had… She couldn't believe it – didn't want to believe it, and yet Hermione felt nauseous and she couldn't even look him in the face. She would never have thought Draco would be the type of boy – man – to do _that_.

"I never raped anyone, Hermione. Once, one time, there was one who looked like Pansy. I – I kissed her, and pretended she was Pansy. It was all very sad, and pathetic, and I'd really rather forget all about it," Draco admitted even more stiffly, and Hermione's went back to him, wide and accusing and _so _relieved, "You _snogged_? But I thought – the way you said it made it sound like –"

"No. I never said that. In fact I specifically said _no_ when you asked if it was sex. But _fuck_, Hermione, you didn't even _doubt_ your assumption; you just immediately thought the worst of me. Not that what I did wasn't wrong. But it wasn't what you thought, either. You need to trust me, Hermione. You still don't, no matter what you might say."

"You were a Death Eater! What am I supposed to think?"

"That I wasn't a very good one?" he tried wryly, and Hermione covered her face with her hands. "I'm sorry."

"You need to trust me," he repeated, and Hermione could only nod wordlessly, racking her brain for something to say that would make her seem less like an idiot. And then the cellar door opened and Hermione jumped to her feet, dropping her hands to her sides as Draco took a step back. "We're heading out! Come on!" Harry's voice echoed down the stairway, and Hermione swore under her breath, "Coming!" she called and looked over at Draco. Harry's timing couldn't be any worse. "We'll talk later," she promised him, and Draco smiled tightly, "Later."

As Hermione walked past Draco toward the stairs he grabbed her; hugged her hard and fierce, and she squeezed him just as tightly. "Don't die. All right? I'm not angry. I get it, it's all right," he said fast and low, breath hot on her ear and Hermione felt tears flood her eyes. He was saying goodbye. Just in case. "I'm sorry. I trust you with my life – I swear."

"I know," he answered quietly and then let Hermione go and nudged her toward the stairs, and she went up them with her heart racing hard and sore in her chest, her mind screaming at her over what had just happened. But she had to be calm and focused, going into potential battle. She couldn't be distracted. God, why did she and Draco have to have that conversation right _then_? Why did she _assume _things? And then Hermione stepped up into the dining room, and blinked around at the others. Kingsley, Lupin, Harry, Ron, Fred and George, and Angelina Johnson, all ready to go, with Lupin, Harry and Ron in the old Auror armour. "You two ready?" Lupin asked and Hermione nodded instantly, despite the fear that ran like ice water in her veins.

It was time for Hermione to go back to Hogwarts.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ The 100,000-word mark has been surpassed (Wow, that's a real shitload of words, right there!), and are coming up on the halfway point of this story, folks – what do you think of it so far?

Also, in this chapter, what did you think of where the main plot (as in the war, and not Dramione-plot) appears to be going?

Also, specifically: What did you think of the last scene, with Draco and Hermione having the moment, with Hermione assuming the worst (not unreasonably) and Draco getting enormously pissed off (also not unreasonable)? I don't really know where it came from, but it seemed to be appropriate, as this whole chapter has ended up being themed around Hermione's _trust_ for Draco, or sub-conscious lack thereof. I mean, Hermione may _intellectually_ know Draco's changed, but in the back of her mind, there have to be some ingrained doubts she's not eradicated yet. We'll deal with the topic of her trust more next chapter, and hopefully Hermione will get some resolution and closure to that subconscious worry. Hopefully.

And Harry is going to try to be more mature! And Hermione and Draco are trying to out-trick each other! And they have awesome charmed armour! And they're breaking into Hogwarts! Yaaaaay! Are these things good things you want more of? What would you like more of? If I _can_ then I'll work it in :)

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter enormously!

Jerry, Iseult, R-for-RED, Guest – Thank you very much for reviewing! I appreciate it so much :D


	19. Hogwarts, Part 1: Set the World on Fire

_Author's Note: _Thank you wonderful reviewers! I am _so_ sorry I've been scarce – I had my mum to stay for a few days, and the husband's been busier which means he has less inclination to mind the spawn in the evenings while I write, and I've also been unfaithful to you all by spending valuable writing time proof-reading and editing a family member's original novel manuscript draft…I feel so neglectful of you though :(

But here's part one of the mission, which I am splitting into two chapters, partly because it's going to be _plenty_ long enough to be two chapters, and partly because it's only half-finished but I don't want to keep you waiting any longer!

The title is from "We Are Young (feat. Janelle Monae)" by fun.

I've tried to include the things you amazing reviewers said you wanted to see more of/see at all in this chapter, and if it's not here, then it will most likely be included in a later chapter :)

Also, I didn't give this chapter a thorough read-through for mistakes, so please be gentle with me if (when) you come across any.

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Hogwarts, Part 1: Set the World on Fire**_

_Hermione_

"No Caterwaul charm anymore?" Hermione asked as she looked around at the others, removing their Disillusionment charms in The Hog's Head. Aberforth Dumbledore snorted and said, "No. The Death Eaters took them off Hogsmeade a few weeks ago. Too many stray dogs wandering around at night setting them off," and one eye closed in a slow wink. Despite her nervousness, Hermione grinned at him, "I see." Lupin strode up, wand in hand and Hermione automatically checked that hers was still sitting snug in its hip holster. The touch of the vine wood was comforting as Lupin addressed Aberforth, "No disturbances this evening?" Aberforth shook his head, "No, nothing. It's been quiet as the grave out there tonight. Nary a whisper." Lupin frowned, "That's not unusual in itself, is it?" Aberforth seemed annoyed, turning away and drawing the curtains behind him tighter shut with rough, jerky movements, "What do you take me for, a fool? If that were the case, boy, I'd have told you right off."

"Sorry. No offence meant, Aberforth." Lupin looked around, "Where are the Order members that were stationed in the Room of Requirement? Has Professor McGonagall begun evacuating the Room yet?" Hermione shuffled back to stand by Harry as Lupin and Aberforth Dumbledore talked, and he smiled weakly at her, his hand placed over his wand as if he wanted to draw it but didn't want to appear scared. "How are you feeling?" she asked and he shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not used to these missions – following orders, having a plan – we never did any of that when we were on the run." Hermione laughed softly, "I quite like having a plan, actually. Not that anything ever seems to _go_ to plan." Harry glanced at her and lowered his voice, "You really think we can trust Malfoy?" Hermione tensed; she had been trying not to think about Draco, trying to avoid thinking about the horrible moment back at Godric's Hollow. Her cheeks flamed as she remembered it, and she turned her head away from Harry, fiddling with the laces on her bracer, "He's doing this because he wants you – us – the Order, to respect him, trust him. It's not some plot, Harry. It's an attempt to…become part of the group."

"Part of the group? What are we, back at school?"

"We will be shortly," Hermione shot back with a smirk, not realising how eerily similar it was to Draco's, and then added seriously, "Everyone wants to belong, Harry. Draco has nothing that he belongs to; no one on his side… Even his mother, much as she seems to love him, doesn't agree with what he's doing. He's looking to be part of something. You can't deny him the chance to prove he's trustworthy." Harry scuffed at the floor with the toe of his boot and frowned up at Hermione from beneath his hair, green eyes narrowed with thought. "Why do you always have to be so reasonable, Hermione?" he complained lightly, scrunching his hand through his fringe.

"It's a curse," she elbowed Harry in the side and grinned at him; it was nice to have these moments. A calm before the approaching storm, a way to take her mind off the looming danger. Hermione just wished Ron were talking to her. He stood on the other side of Harry, but stayed a few feet away, apparently pretending that Hermione didn't exist and her conversation with Harry wasn't happening, his face turned toward Lupin and Aberforth. "He'll get over it Hermione. You just have to give him a bit of time. You _were_ pretty hard on him," Harry whispered, leaning over towards Hermione's ear. She frowned and muttered back, "I was not. I just…told him what he needed to hear. I did the same to Draco."

"I think that's what he doesn't like, Hermione – you treating him the same as Malfoy. We've all been friends for years, and hated Malfoy for most of that time, and now all of a sudden Ron's getting treated the same as the bloke he hates. That's got to sting, 'Mione. I don't blame Ron for being a bit pissed," Harry said, and Hermione screwed her mouth up, annoyed at Harry for being right. That _would_ be how Ron would see it. But it wasn't the right way to look at the situation. She had lectured Ron because it had been _cruel_ the way he had baited Draco; insulting him and mocking him, treating him like dirt. Ron had triggered that whole argument and subsequent fight, and he bloody well deserved to feel Hermione's wrath for that. She had yelled at Draco just as much for responding to Ron's taunts – she had even slapped him! She told Harry that in a low, vehement whisper, and he just shrugged flippantly, "Try telling Ron that. I somehow doubt it'll help." Stupid boys, all of them, Hermione fumed to herself, glaring at Ron who still studiously avoided looking at her, his eyes still glued to Lupin.

Why couldn't Ron and Draco quit their stupid macho posturing and just give each other a chance? It would make her life a whole lot simpler. And they might even like each other…although that might be a little too optimistic.

Hermione wondered how she would feel if…something…happened to Ron tonight, and she hadn't fixed things between them. Would she feel guilty about it? Regret it for the rest of her life? Hermione stared at the redhead and knew she _would_ regret it – how could she not? But she didn't cross the few feet of floor between them. She didn't try to apologise or offer an olive branch. Didn't do anything at all. Hermione didn't want to risk having Ron turn away from her and reject an attempt at smoothing things over and pretending nothing had happened; that would crush her. And she refused to apologise – she hadn't been in the wrong, _he_ had. Her pride wouldn't allow it. So she stared at Ron and hoped desperately that he would be okay. That once the mission was over, and she had given him some more time to sulk, everything would go back to normal between them. Maybe she'd even apologise _after_ he'd gotten over his sulk.

They just had to get back to Godric's Hollow safely. Her eyes left Ron and drifted the room, falling on lean, broad shoulders and white-blonde hair. He was tucked in a corner away from the others, half in shadow, leaning against the wall with his maimed arm looking even stranger with the bracer covering it to the end of the stump. His eyes were on her, and in the shadows they were the same colour as the charcoal armour, unblinking and hooded. He didn't try to hide the fact that he'd been watching her, he just tipped one corner of his mouth up in the barest smile possible, and she wondered how it was possible that _he_ wasn't angry with her, after what had happened earlier. It was strange, realising that Draco Malfoy was actually a _nicer_ person than Ronald Weasley, at least in some respects. Draco understood that people – including him – were fallible, and didn't hold their mistakes against them. Ron didn't get that. He thought good people should always be good – perfect – and resented them when they weren't. Hermione didn't know if Ron would ever understand what Draco understood, what Hermione was beginning to comprehend. Nuance, complexity, none of the black and white that Ron saw everywhere he looked. That she used to see. It was disconcerting to realise how much she had changed since her experience at the Manor, and again since Draco had defected.

Hermione smiled at him faintly, still feeling awkward about earlier – about what it meant about her and what she really thought of Draco, that she had so quickly assumed the worst. He quirked an eyebrow, an unspoken _are you all right?_ She smiled, wider this time and sincere if a little nervy, and gave an infinitesimal nod, which of course Draco saw and understood. He nodded back, a tiny dip of the chin just like hers. Then he turned his eyes away from her without any show of emotion, and yet somehow Hermione felt as warm inside as if Draco had kissed her.

# # #

_Draco_

Draco could feel Hermione's nervousness emanating off her like a physical force as she strode along in front of him in the narrow tunnel, which led from behind Aberforth's portrait of Ariana all the way to the Room of Requirement. Hermione looked different in the old-fashioned Auror armour, shoulders seeming broader and hips more prominent in the battle-ready charmed leather, booted feet silent as a cat's on the dirty stone floor. The tail of her braid swished back and forth between her shoulder blades like a metronome in time with her steps, and her wand was held out ahead of her a little, a _lumos_ glowing at the tip. She looked both terrified and incredibly brave, and Draco was, as always, struck by how strange it was that she would want to be with him. Hermione was everything that anyone should want to be; brave, intelligent, strong, kind, and with a sense of integrity that no one else he had known could rival. Why would she want to be around _him_?

Draco cared about her more than anyone else in the world except his mother now, although he didn't allow himself to think of his affection in terms of _love_. He knew she cared about him too; it was obvious in every look, every touch – in the way she crept down to the cellar in the middle of the night, to talk and snog. But all that didn't negate the fact that she thought he was capable of rape. It tainted Draco's feelings for her, provoking mingled hurt and anger. It bothered him to know, without a doubt, that Hermione thought he was capable of willingly committing a crime as heinous as rape. Draco had thought that she understood that everything – _everything _– he had done as a Death Eater had been coerced; right from the moment Voldemort had ordered him to kill Albus Dumbledore.

Hermione did know that – Draco had told her more than once, but that obviously didn't change the irrefutable fact that he had been one of the enemy. No matter how stupid – or inevitable, thanks to his upbringing – his choice to become a Death Eater had been, he was now and forever, quite literally branded as one. On Draco's arm was the permanent proof that he had been a member of the most despicable people in the Wizarding world. He had been one of _them_, and that would never – could never – change.

Of _course_ Hermione was going to wonder just what Draco had done. All she knew was that he had never killed anyone, and now that he had never raped either. But there were so many other horrific things that Draco could have done. That he _had_ done. Maybe it was time that Draco told Hermione exactly what crimes he had committed. Confess to her. Give her a list of all the things she could hold against him; at least then she would know exactly _why _there was a part of her that didn't trust him, no matter how much she wanted to convince them both that she did. Then when Hermione looked at him like that, like she had earlier, she would be thinking of actual things he had done, instead of the macabre fantasies he had no doubt preyed on her mind. Draco's lips tightened and he stared at the end of her braid, swish, swish, swishing with each steady step she took along the cramped, filthy tunnel.

It was shit, to see that revulsion in her eyes. It was fucking _hell_, and yet Draco just had to grin and bear it – he knew he brought the blame and the fear of what he might have done that lurked in her eyes on himself. But part of him rankled at that dull acceptance of judgement; felt anger, because there was nothing he could do to fix the hurt he had caused. Ever. What he had done was done, and there was no going back and undoing it. And did that mean that technically, everyone – _Hermione_ – was entitled to distrust or despise Draco forever? Was he always going to be the one on the outer edges, never permitted into the inner circle, knowing that they were all quietly watching him, judging him for things he would take back if he could? Resentment seeped through him, as sour and stale as the air in the tunnel, and Draco wondered if one day that resentment would soak through him entirely and turn him bitter. Make him into what _they_ thought he was – a coward who had turned his back on their enemy only to save his own skin.

Would Hermione begin looking at him with _that_ expression more and more? Most of the time she was just herself, and things were good, but then suddenly Draco would _see_ her remembering not _who_ he was, but _what_ he had been. Hermione didn't seem physically capable of hiding her emotions, and Draco could see the certainty that he was keeping horrors from her – despicable acts – written all over her face. And damnit he was, but he _knew_ that what she imagined in her head was far worse than the reality. He could have done far worse, although he doubted that particular argument would carry him very far. He needed a way to atone. Draco needed to find _some_ way of making amends, of showing the Order, and Hermione, that he was trustworthy. That he was sorry. He had changed. And that was why he was trudging along through a filthy, most likely rat-infested tunnel behind Hermione and the other members of the team.

Draco supposed idly that being placed at the back of the group must denote at least _some _trust, and tried to think positive thoughts, something he still wasn't very experienced with yet.

Lost in his thoughts, Draco didn't notice when they reached the small door that led into the Room of Requirement. Hermione stopped abruptly, waiting for the others to squash through, and Draco walked into her with a soft thud. She felt unfamiliar in the armour, both soft and hard at the same time, and he liked it, in an entirely inappropriate way. "Sorry," he murmured and took a quick step back, and Hermione's hand groped out blindly behind her, finding his maimed forearm and squeezing it firmly through the bracer. Draco wondered how it was that such a small, simple gesture meant so much when it came from Hermione. Was it because she imbued everything she did with such purpose and feeling that he couldn't help but feel what she emoted, or was it just that he…cared about her. Liked her, wanted to get into her pants – and so every touch was like a muddy puddle in the desert, or stale bread to a starving man; just because he wanted it, wanted _her_ so much.

Draco thought it might be both, and an unthinking smile curved his lips in the dim glow of their _lumos _charms.

Anyway, he thought with flippant wryness, there was no point in dwelling on his problems now. He may as well leave thinking about horribly depressing and complicated issues until he survived this mission. It would be rather a waste of time to spend these precious few moments before the truly hazardous part of the mission began wondering about what to do afterwards, only to be killed during. Or to suffer the irony of being killed precisely _because_ he was too busy focusing on the future, and not paying enough attention to the dangers of the present.

Hermione half-turned and smiled, a rictus of bared teeth and frightened, determined eyes. "You'll be fine," Draco told her in a low voice, and Hermione gave him an unimpressed look, "This isn't my first mission – you do realise that?" she sniped dryly, "And," she paused and waited for George – the last of the team – to step through into the Room, leaving the two of them in the tunnel alone. "_And_, you promised not to worry about me, anyway."

"I did, didn't I?" Draco mused ruefully. "Fine. Just be careful. Please," he added briefly, and Hermione flashed him a little grin. Her hand gripped his arm and she pushed herself up onto her toes, lips pressing against his cheek, a warm, gentle branding. She smiled again, and then ducked through into the Room without a word. Draco felt a smile shape his own mouth; both from the kiss, and at Hermione's quaint notion that the Malfoys didn't only keep their word when it suited them. He shifted his wand in his hand, and followed her through to the room, where the others were gathered nervously, watching Lupin and McGonagall exchange brief, preparatory words. Lupin glanced at Draco as he entered the room, and the older wizard's eyes were flat, his dislike for Draco clear.

Draco didn't give a fuck. He wasn't here for Lupin. He was here for Hermione, and for himself.

# # #

It had been going so well, up until about two minutes ago, when bloody Crabbe and bloody Goyle had burst into the Room of Requirement as Draco and the rest of the team hunted frantically through god knew _how_ many decades of hidden junk, looking for one small tiara. He had been searching an aisle near the door, the other members of the team split up amongst the junk so as to cover more ground. The first indication that Draco had gotten of his old lackeys' presence was when a curse struck the pile of furniture, books and other odds and ends he was hunting through. The resulting explosion blasted him backward through the air, hand tight on his wand. He hit the ground with a thud and scrambled to his feet gasping for air, eyes landing on, "Crabbe? Goyle? What…?" He dodged another spell; cast by Goyle, who advanced on him with a scowl, "You betrayed us! You fucking bastard!"

Draco didn't want to fight them. As evil, stupid and useless as they were, they had been his, well; not friends, but they _had_ meant something to him. "You stupid fuckers," he hissed, and shot a wordless _stupefy_ at Goyle, and one at Crabbe, but his wandwork was clumsier in his off hand, and the spells missed. "What the _hell _are you doing here?" Crabbe smirked, and said, "You're not the only one who can become a Death Eater, Malfoy." Draco blocked a wordless curse and cast another _stupefy_. He didn't want to hurt them. He didn't. Not even if the stupid bloody bastards _had_ gone and joined the Death Eaters. "You don't want to do this," he warned them, and the pair of them laughed like the idiots they were, advancing on him with multicoloured lights zinging from their wands and Draco swore as his stunners kept missing or being blocked. He couldn't keep this up forever – where was the rest of the fucking team?

"Malfoy!" Weasley's voice sounded heavenly to Draco's ears, and in his peripheral vision he saw the redhead appear from behind a stack of junk, his wand raised. Crabbe and Goyle paused in their attacks, as if Weasley's sudden appearance confused them. "Lupin!" Weasley roared as he cautiously approached, trying to cover Draco, Crabbe and Goyle all at once. "I'm on your fucking side, Weasley."

"I don't know that though, do I?" Weasley shot back, and Draco glared at Weasley and he glared back, both of them taking their eyes off Crabbe and Goyle – who used the moment to decide to starting duelling again. Draco had no idea, still staring resentfully at Weasley, when the redhead yelled, "Down!" Draco dropped without thinking, bringing his wand up as he did and casting a wordless _protego_. His eyes darted to Weasley, who held his own against the other two, flinging spells – non-verbal and spoken, curses and stunners. Draco tried to process what had just happened – the bastard had saved his life.

Draco blocked two more curses in quick succession, and Weasley yelled, "Lupin!" again. Weasley was surprisingly good and duelling, and Draco found himself being grudgingly impressed – reduced mostly to blocking, himself. He was having far more trouble than he thought he would at left-handed duelling, but then he probably would have been rusty with wandwork in general after so long without one. A shared look between him and Weasley that grated on Draco almost as much as Weasley saying over the crack of Crabbe and Goyle's curses, "I can't do this alone, and _you're_ not much bloody help. We need to retreat." Draco nodded shortly and they ended up breaking and running down the aisles, dodging through gaps and weaving away from Crabbe and Goyle, who were charging after them.

"Where's everybody else?" Draco gasped. "I don't bloody know!" Weasley gasped back and nearly careened into a stack of ornate chairs; Draco managing to grab him with his wand hand and pull him out of the way, nearly dropping his borrowed wand in the process. There was a brief silence as they ran, and then, "Thanks," Weasley panted. "You too," Draco answered as he skidded around a corner.

"Why?"

"Before, with Crabbe and Goyle. Could have let me die."

"If I want you dead, I'll bloody well do it myself, Malfoy."

Draco laughed breathlessly and they kept running through the maze, Crabbe and Goyle close enough behind that their curses occasionally struck the precariously stacked objects, which made up the walls of the aisles, far too close to Draco and Weasley. "How fucking big is this place anyway?" Weasley panted, and then they both barrelled full tilt into Potter, knocking the precious Boy-Who-Lived to the ground. "Wha?" Potter blinked owlishly behind his glasses and Weasley hauled him to his feet. "Crabbe and Goyle," Draco began and then a _reducto_ seared the air and part of the aisle exploded in a rain of junk and Weasley finished for Draco as they all ducked and covered their heads with their arms, "Right behind us!"

"_Expelliarmus!_ " Potter yelled and followed it up with a non-verbal spell – a stunner by the colour, both of which were blocked. Draco hurled several stunners himself – all of which would have hit the other two boys but were also blocked. At least his aim was improving, but Crabbe and Goyle had obviously been practicing since Draco had last seen them and the spells just weren't getting through their shields and blocks. "Where are the others?" Draco bit out, blocking a curse with a swish of his wand. "Don't know," Potter answered, his wand slicing the air as the three of them blocked and cast, retreating down the aisle slowly. "God, when did these two get so _good_?" Potter added, and cried, "_Sectumsempra!_" and Draco flinched, remembering the bathroom. The cold and wet and creeping, dizzy death of blood loss.

Just as Potter's spell hit, Crabbe yelled something, and as his bleeding body fell, fire erupted from the end of his wand, straight up toward the ceiling. Goyle turned and looked at his friend's body, shocked, forgetting all about the duel, not even seeming to notice the fire that had spewed from Crabbe's wand. Draco, Weasley and Potter all stared horror-struck at the scene before them; Goyle's shoulders slumped and his head bowed over Crabbe's body, and the fire was like a roiling storm in the air above him. Then it swooped down, as if it was alive, and Draco yelled, "Greg! Look out!" Goyle looked up, screamed – a high, shrieking sound – and then turned tail and ran, straight for Draco and the other two. "Run, Harry!" Weasley yelled as Potter stood frozen, and Draco elbowed Potter hard in the arm, which seemed to snap him out of it, and then they were running again.

Draco, Weasley and Potter, followed by a terrified Goyle, and a raging, hungry fire. "What the bloody fuck _is_ that?" Weasley screamed over the roar of the flames. "Don't know, but it's not bloody good!" Potter yelled back, and Draco gasped, "_Really?_ You figure that one out yourself, Potter?" They ran as the Room began to burn around them, looking for the exit and just hoping the others were getting out too – it wasn't like they wouldn't notice the enormous raging fire consuming the Room. As long as they weren't trapped, they should be fine. Hermione should be fine, Draco told himself, lungs burning from the intense heat that made the air waver around him.

Then Hermione appeared like a mirage in the wavering air, skidded to a halt in an intersection ahead as she spotted them. Her eyes were wide and relief saturated her face when she saw they were alive. "The aisles are blocked!" she screamed over the noise of the fire as they sprinted toward her. "The fiendfyre is everywhere! We're trapped!" Of course _Hermione_ would know what was going to bloody roast them alive. "No way to put it out?" Potter yelled as they skidded to a halt in front of Hermione. "No!" She shook her head, eyes on the conflagration looming behind them. Then, "Brooms!" Weasley screamed with joyous hope, and Draco saw a little behind him, Goyle start trying to scale a wall in blind panic, tears saturating his cheeks, and it made Draco think, Vincent's dead. Dead. The thought made him feel strange and hollow, but he cried, "_Accio_ broom!" along with the other three.

A moment later, fire getting ever closer, a broom slapped into Draco, Potter and Hermione's hands – Weasley left with nothing. There was a crash and Draco swung around and saw Goyle collapse under a rain of objects – he had fallen from the wall. "You can fly me, Ron!" Hermione shoved the broom at Ron, and they all mounted. Goyle's hand stuck out from beneath the pile that covered him, and twitched weakly. Draco swore under his breath and looked at the others, Hermione staring at him anxiously. "Go ahead!" Hermione opened her mouth, fear and refusal covering her face and Draco scowled, "Fucking go already!"

Weasley nodded at Draco, and pushed off, and Hermione swore and hit him on the shoulder. Draco could hear her screaming as they sipped off, "We can't leave him! He's part of the team! Ronald! _Ronald!_" Draco started hauling things off Goyle, wand clutched in his teeth as he insulted Goyle in a steady, unintelligible stream, flinging things left and right as the fire bore down on them, "You fucking stupid oaf…piece of shit…squib fucking…Merlin's _fucking_ sake!" Goyle's frightened face came into view and he sat up with a struggle as Draco pushed a chair off him, "Fire!" he screamed thinly, pointing behind Draco and Draco rolled his eyes, grabbing Goyle's shirt and hauling him up with no little effort, "No fucking kidding," he spat around his wand and swung his leg over the broom – an ancient, shabby thing. "Get on!" He ordered Goyle and the oaf got on, clutching Draco around the middle and whimpering.

The broom rose up and Draco looked behind him and swore – the fire was _right there_ and suddenly the heat was like the blast from an opened furnace door and he leaned forward and forced the broom as fast as it could go with both of them on it. Goyle kept babbling, "Faster, faster!" and Draco felt like his ex-lackey's grip was going to snap him in two. And then the heat went from being an open furnace door to being _in _the furnace as the door approached and for a second the fire licked out at them, almost surrounding them. Draco plastered himself down to the broom, feeling his hair singing and skin _burning_, and then they were through the door, ramming into the wall opposite and tumbling to the ground.

He looked around gasping and dizzy and picking up his wand from the ground where it had fallen, and looked around the Order members. Everyone was there, and Draco felt relief, not just about Hermione but…everyone. Maybe. Just a little. But they all had their wands out, and Lupin said, "Malfoy." In a rough, urgent voice and Draco looked around and saw the Carrows approaching with four students flanking them. _Fuck_. "Did we at least get the diadem?" he hissed, to anyone who would answer. "It was destroyed by the fiendfyre." Kingsley Shacklebolt answered coolly, eyes never moving from the Carrows, and then his wand flicked and Alecto went flying back, smashing to the ground – only to leap back up with her teeth bared in a snarling grin, and hurl several curses at Draco and the assembled Order members. _Fuck_. At least they had accomplished what they came here for, Draco thought wryly, wand flashing as he spat an _incendio_ at Amycus – no stunners for _them_. Draco had never liked the Carrows.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ So, how was that? Is that what you wanted? Did you enjoy? Dynamics between people are good? Pretty please tell me I want to – no, _must_ know what you thought :D

More coming in a day or two, with the second half of the mission, which will contain: What happens when you trust someone, even the tiniest bit (spoiler: bad things happen), Aunt Bella bursts onto the scene and has herself some fun, and _somebody is killed_. Along with lots of other exciting things! Yay!


	20. Hogwarts, Part 2: A Quick-Pull Trigger

_Author's Note: _Thank you my splendiferous reviewers, for all your wonderful reviews! And an extra thank you to the guests who review whom I can't PM and reply to – I appreciate your feedback so much!

This chapter was going to be the last one on the _Hogwarts_ mission, but it was getting sooooo long I've chopped it in two (I haven't finished writing _Part 3_ yet though).

The title is from "Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster the People. I like listening to it while I write chaotic action scenes, it works quite well somehow, I think. Quirky.

This chapter we have…trust in someone being misplaced and abused, lots of pain and blood and. well – warning for gore, gore, gore – and _someone dies_, but it's not who _any_ of you might suspect :D

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Hogwarts Part 2: A Quick-Pull Trigger**_

_Hermione_

Hermione's back seared from the deep slashes that crisscrossed it, but her wand hand was steady as she raced through the hallways of Hogwarts behind the others. "Left here!" Harry called from the middle of the group, holding the Marauder's Map and directing their path; trying to avoid Death Eaters and their student allies as they made for one of the secret passages that riddled Hogwarts.

Now that the Room of Requirement had been destroyed by the fiendfyre, the passageways were their best hope for getting out of Hogwarts alive. Hermione's breath rasped in her throat. The Carrows and their accompanying students had not been an easy fight, although they had either been disabled, wounded or fled in the end, and no one on the team had been badly hurt by _them_. It had been Goyle who had wounded Hermione. After the enormous bloody risk Draco had taken to save him, Goyle had turned around and tried to kill her while they were focused on the danger the Carrows posed. In the chaos of the duel between the Order team, and the Carrows and their 7th year students, Hermione had suddenly felt a rippling, searing pain through her back. She had nearly fallen to her knees, her staggering unnoticed by the others, and her first thought had been, _ambush_ – that there were more Death Eaters behind them. But it had been Goyle she had seen when she had forced herself to turn around, whimpering at the pain that coursed through her.

It was Goyle who had been staring at her with hateful, frightened eyes and his wand up. "Fucking mudblood bitch," he had spat out and begun to flick his wand, and without thinking Hermione had sent a _stupefy _at him, her teeth gritted against the pain. It had struck him in the chest, and he had crumpled with a heavy thud, and then there hadn't been any more time to waste on him because curses were cracking and hissing through the air. So Hermione had turned back toward the Carrows and forced herself to keep fighting. Blood had flowed warm beneath her armour, and the pain had been – still was – indescribable, her knees weak and trembling. But she had made it through the duel. Now all she had to do was make it out of Hogwarts; god, the idea seemed impossible. How could she? She wanted to fall down and curl up and cry at the pain. But she couldn't. So she just kept forcing herself to run, to keep up with the near sprinting pace Lupin had set.

Rough howls and whoops echoed off the walls of Hogwarts; the Death Eaters were gaining on them, and Hermione found herself running harder, despite the stitch in her side and the agony rippling through her back. She ended up behind Lupin, the others between her and the Death Eaters and although she knew it was irrational, she felt safer somehow. Hermione didn't know how much longer she could run like this though, not with her wounds. She stifled a whimper and forced her legs to keep moving. "Miss Granger – your back!" Professor McGonagall panted, robes fluttering out around her as she drew up alongside Hermione. Damnit – Hermione had been hoping no one would notice; it wasn't easy to see by the flickering torchlight that lit the halls intermittently. Well, now that it had been noticed, there was no point in trying to downplay the wound. Hermione didn't even know how severe it was, except that blood was still trickling warm beneath her leather armour, despite the wound having been inflicted at least fifteen minutes ago.

"How bad – is it – P-Professor?" Hermione gasped out, keeping her eyes fixed on where she was putting her feet. The last thing she needed was to trip and fall. "It's…" McGonagall seemed at a loss for words, and Hermione took that to mean that the wounds were bad; but then she had already guessed that much by the pain radiating through her back. "Is – bleeding – bad?" She could barely speak, chest heaving and leg muscles aching. They didn't have time to stop and treat any injuries right now, which was why Hermione hadn't mentioned her injury before – there was nothing they could do about it unless she was bleeding out. "It's bleeding – but I can't tell – how bad." McGonagall's voice was shaky, either because of the severity of the wound or the older witch's jolting footsteps – Hermione couldn't tell. Harry yelled, "Right!" and they slowed and then sprinted down a right-hand corridor, Hermione's breath burning her throat. "We can't stop – they'll catch – up"

"Miss Granger – would take – but a moment – to stem the – bleeding," McGonagall gasped, her stern teaching voice losing some of its authority when thin and high with breathlessness. Hermione shook her head, about to gasp out a negative, but someone else beat her to it. "No. Leave it," a voice snapped from the other side of Hermione, and she glanced over at Draco; keeping pace with her, his face, hair and clothes all sooty from the fiendfyre that had nearly consumed him. "We can't stop. Have to wait. Maybe passage." He jerked out, and then, "You can make it?" Their eyes met for a moment; soot was creased in the lines of worry and tension surrounding Draco's eyes, and his mouth was a flat line, nostrils flaring as he breathed hard. He was afraid for her. It really must be bad. Hermione turned her eyes back to the floor in front of her feet, "I – can make it."

She kept running.

There were three lefts then a right, and she began lagging behind, Draco falling back to keep pace with her. No one else noticed, too busy focusing on fleeing, and Hermione preferred it that way. If Ron or Harry saw she wasn't keeping up they would want to try to help her, but they couldn't afford to right now. Her feet stumbled and she slowed to a jog, tears splashing down her cheeks as each step sent waves of pain through her back. As long as she could make it to the next secret passage she would be fine. None of their enemies knew about the passages, and they could stop in one and tend to her back. And until then, Hermione just had to keep running, or die. The rest of the team had descended the stairs and disappeared into the corridor at the bottom, just as Hermione and Draco reached the top of the staircase. They were falling further and further behind, and she tried to make her feet move faster as they hurried down the stairs.

Then more whooping, howling cries echoed off the walls of Hogwarts – closer now – and Hermione flinched and her foot missed the second to last step. The world went in slow motion and her back screamed in agony as she flung her arms out to try to save herself – but too late. Hermione's forehead cracked into the stone floor, and she moaned. Whimpered. Dazed. In pain. "I…" She couldn't think. Didn't know where she was. Didn't know why she hurt all over. "I…" A hand gripped her arm, rough and hard, and Hermione was dragged to her feet and hauled staggering along, the world in blurry double vision. The hand on her arm yanked harder, and she stumbled with it, stomach rebelling on her.

"For fuck's sake, run! Faster, you useless _fucking_ _mudblood_! Do you _want _to get caught again?" The hand pinched her upper arm and it _hurt_, and the angrily hissed words were almost unintelligible. She didn't know what was going on, didn't understand – but she wasn't useless and she wasn't a _fucking_ _mudblood_. Anger gave her legs strength, and Hermione ran faster, breath burning down her throat, and back and head _hurting_. She was snapped fast around a corner and saw Draco was the one pulling her along, and she remembered the mission, fuzzily. Her head hurt. "Draco?" His wand was clamped in his teeth – he must have shoved it there without thinking so he could grab her when she fell. Hermione's head began to slowly clear. "Let me go," she ordered and he shot her a glare. "No," he growled around his wand. "You – you can't defend yourself," she gasped. Without his wand in hand Draco couldn't block, couldn't attack – he had _promised_ not to risk himself for her. Hermione's hand was wrapped around _her_ wand, but she felt all muzzy-headed, couldn't think of…spells? Draco yanked at her, trying to get Hermione to move faster, and she yelped with pain and he flinched, muttering, "Sorry."

"You _promised_." She made herself stagger-stumble-run to keep up with Draco's pace, his vice-like grip on her arm and the desperate fear on his face about the only things that kept Hermione going. He didn't answer her, and she tried to pull away from him again. "Stop it! What are you, concussed, you dozy, bloody… Fucking _run_ unless you want _them_ getting their filthy hands on you!" He bit the words out muffled and garbled around his wand, and it would have sounded almost funny if the situation hadn't been so terrifying. Hermione ignored the fear that clogged her throat at the thought of being captured. "You promised!" She coughed out again, looking at Draco, soot streaks making the clean patches of skin seem paler, and blood splashing his armour – Hermione hoped it wasn't all his. "_No_." He snarled it, and they rounded a corner at a staggering gait, and Hermione sank with relief – Fred and George were hurrying toward them.

"Harry noticed you were gone,"

"So we volunteered our services."

"We'll take her from here, mate," they said in unison, and Draco released his death grip on Hermione's arm, his reluctance to let go obvious. His face was tense and his grey eyes roamed over her, like he was looking for reassurance that she would be okay. Maybe he was being _too_ obvious; Hermione thought – but at this point she didn't really care who knew about either of their feelings, if indeed the twins noticed. They might all be dead within fifteen minutes anyway. "Thanks," she smiled shakily at the twins as they hooked their arms through hers, taking some of her weight and making running easier, although her back still alternately throbbed and shrieked with pain.

"No problem!"

"Happy to help!"

Hermione could _feel_ Draco right behind her as they hurried down the last stretch of corridor to the heavy tapestry that obscured the passage; not one Hermione or the boys had ever used before. All she could see was bare, dusty stone wall as Fred and George pulled a corner of the tapestry aside. "Come on then," one of them said. She and Draco ducked under and Fred – George? – grabbed her by the arm and pulled Hermione straight _through_ the wall. She gasped as the sensation of walking through something that should be solid made her hair stand on end. It was a slimy, slippery feeling, and she couldn't get the thought that her atoms and molecules were shifting to slip between the walls atoms and molecules out of her head. Hermione did _not_ like it. But then they were through and in the cramped, dark passage, and the noises of the Death Eaters were growing louder. Fred and George started pulling Hermione along again. "We'll stop a little further in."

"They might hear us here."

"Investigate."

"Wh – where are the others?" Hermione gasped out, feeling more and more light-headed, her back coated with a mix of sticky, coagulated blood, and newer warm liquid. She was losing too much blood, she thought. All the movement and the pulling and opening of the wounds was exacerbating her blood loss. "They're in the next passageway, behind the portrait of old Tilda Tiddlywinks. You know the one. It'll take them down to the Great Hall, but they'll wait in there until we catch up." George – Hermione thought it was George; it was even harder to tell in the near dark – said. They let Hermione stumble to a halt and she stood in the gloom without even a _lumos_, and didn't cast one in case the Death Eaters could see, just shoved her wand in its holster and resisted the urge to feel around her 'til she found all three boys. That could be awkward. Feeling in the dark. Who knew what she'd find. She giggled a little, head swimming. The sound of their breathing and her stifled, shrill laughter was loud in the dark, and when she had finished giggling Hermione could hear herself whimpering involuntarily, like a wounded puppy.

"Here, hold out your hand; our new and improved take on the Pepper Up Potion." Fred – George? – pushed a small vial clumsily into Hermione's outstretched hand, and she clasped it firmly, bringing it to her lips with a small amount of trepidation.

"_Weasleys' Wake Up_," they chorused, as Hermione downed it and then doubled over and gagged, wincing at the pain in her back the movements caused, and screwing her face up at the taste. "That's _disgusting_."

"Ah, yes…well, it is still in the beta testing stages," one of them said apologetically and Hermione fought the urge to retch, feeling rather like she had stuffed one of their dirty P.E. socks down her throat and was choking on it. "You're using me as a _guinea pig_?"

"Is it working?" they asked her anxiously, and Hermione blinked. "Actually, I think I might be feeling a little better."

"You don't feel, ah, green at all?"

"_Green?_ Why on _earth_ would I _feel_ green?"

"Oh, no reason," one of the twins said dismissively, "Just had a few hiccups in the early stages is all. Nothing to worry about – nothing at all. As long as you don't turn _green_."

"_Oh!_" Hermione scowled. Why could they never tell her these things _before_ she drank the potion? Underhanded, cheeky, devious… They should have been sorted into Slytherin. And then she managed a grin, which they couldn't see in the dark anyway. "Thank you."

"Welcome," they answered in a cheery whisper.

Then Hermione jumped as a hand touched her back. "For fuck's sake." Draco's angry voice was quiet but harsh in Hermione's ear, as he examined the extent of her injuries as best he could with her leather armour on in the gloom. She winced with pain and bit her lip as Draco tore the holes in the leather wider open so he could see better, and then he was swearing furiously under his breath and Hermione knew he was scared. "Go on, you two. Tell the others we'll be there as soon as we've put some healing potions on my back," Hermione told Fred and George, feeling marvellously clear-headed now. _Weasleys' Wake Up_ was an excellent product. As long as when Hermione next looked in a mirror she wasn't _green_ – and maybe even then – she'd definitely recommend it when Fred and George opened the shop again. One day. After the war…

"Are you sure?" one of the twins asked, and Draco growled, "Go! Do as she says." He shoved a tiny pot into Hermione's hands and she opened it with trembling hands. "We'll wait five minutes, and then we're coming back," Fred – or maybe George – said, and Hermione glared. "Don't you bloody dare come back! We'll be there. But even if we aren't, don't come back!" But the twins were already heading down the passage and probably tuning out Hermione on purpose and she heaved an irritated sigh. She got the lid off the teeny jar and held it out to one side in her right hand, "There you are."

"Thanks." The pottle bobbed in her grip and then a moment later Hermione nearly dropped it, and bit her lip so hard she felt her teeth _pop_ through the skin and tasted blood. Draco had smeared on some of the cream potion – a mix of numbing, healing and blood coagulating substances. Her back automatically arched away from Draco's hand and he swore again, "Hold fucking still." Hermione winced and released her lip. "I – I can't help it –" She held back a scream as he smeared the cream over the next wound, but made herself stand perfectly still. "It hurts…" Hermione moaned; dragging out the 's' in a plaintive complaint and Draco inhaled sharply. "I know. But we have to stop the bleeding and fix you up enough that you can move on your own, or we'll end up dragging your unconscious body behind us." She nodded and there were a few more moments of agony broken only by her stifled whimpers as she bit down on the bracer on her left arm to save her lip.

"Done," Draco said, sounding as relieved as Hermione was. They put themselves to rights and she tucked the little pottle back in a pouch on his belt. She turned and they stood facing each other in the dark, the pain already leaching out of Hermione's back. His arms went to her waist – the feel of a hand on her right side, and just a forearm on her left. Familiar now – mostly. "You can keep going?" His forehead came down, resting against hers, and Hermione sighed out her tension. "I can, I think. Now the pain's mostly gone."

"Who did it?"

"Goyle."

"_Fuck!_" Draco spat out, "I should've left him to fucking _die_. _Bastard_."

"You did the right thing, saving him. I'm…proud of you." Hermione whispered and kissed his soot-smeared cheek. Draco moved his head and captured her mouth, the kiss wet and hot and filled with urgency, the knowledge that there was no guarantee either of them would make it out of here alive making everything sweeter, more intense. Hermione felt particular words wanting to spill from her lips, but she shoved them back and kept kissing him fiercely, like she could lock them together. Like her kiss was a promise that she and Draco would live through this, instead of being a goodbye. Draco's tongue grazed over hers, tangling and thrilling, and their mouths tasted like blood; like their first _real_ kiss had except this time it was her blood not his, and Hermione still didn't care. She felt the familiar ache for him start to throb, and a whimper made him break their kiss. "Is the pain…?" Draco asked worriedly, and Hermione shook her head, smiling weakly, frustrated. "That wasn't a pain sound, that was a…"

"_Oh_…" Draco kissed her lips again, lightly this time, and she could feel the smirk that shaped his mouth. Then he straightened and took a deep breath, and Hermione felt a pang of loss. "We should go," he murmured, and they set off down the long passageway.

# # #

_Draco_

They met up with the others in a passage on Hogwarts's ground floor without incident, rejoining the small group – Lupin, Shacklebolt, McGonagall, Potter, Weasley and the Weasley twins. Johnson, who had been left at Aberforth Dumbledore's, was probably still trying to get back into the Room from the Hog's Head and not realising why it wasn't working anymore. Probably panicking, thinking they'd all been killed. Draco stood at the back of the group clustered just inside the secret passage into the Great Hall, Hermione's back in front of him, the leather armour and her shirt beneath hanging in little more than rags, and the pungent brown potion smearing the deep gashes. That had been fucking _horrible_ having to apply it; feeling her tense and shake under his hand, the whimpers of pain she tried to stifle. Draco never wanted to have to do that again, or anything like it.

Fucking Goyle. Draco was going to murder him if he ever saw him again. Treacherous, ungrateful bastard.

"We'll go through the Great Hall, and from there down the route past Hagrid's – it's the quickest way." Lupin said, a fresh slash on his face and blood in his hair. "They know we'll take that route," Shacklebolt pointed out coolly, and Lupin gave a helpless shrug, "Any other way will take too long, and they'll have time to get reinforcements in. A handful of Death Eater's and the older students fighting with them we can handle, but reinforcements…" Lupin shook his head regretfully, "We have to take this chance." Shacklebolt nodded without argument, and the team moved out, Draco following in their trail with his eyes on Hermione's shredded back. Merlin, she shouldn't be here. She should be in hospital, not here fighting for her life. Draco didn't know how she was managing to stay upright, even with the potion on her back helping numb the pain "Fucking Gryffindor," he mumbled under his breath, and grinned ruefully.

They jogged through the Great Hall, wands out and ready, and Draco had a moment of jarring confusion as he remembered the last time he came through here. Also at night. With Snape and the other Death Eaters. Dumbledore's death heavy on Draco's shoulders, whether he had committed the actual act or not. His cosy bed in the dungeons had seemed so far away as he had wished that everything was a horrible nightmare. Bellatrix shrieking and whooping with psychotic joy. She had destroyed the Hall, laid wreck to it, and Draco had stared back with frightened eyes and seen his childhood destroyed. Staring at his insane, cavorting aunt and seen the possibilities of escape, of taking another path, just…die. Like Dumbledore had. At that moment Draco had wanted more than anything else to have chosen differently on the Astronomy Tower. To have accepted Dumbledore's protection. But he hadn't, and it was too late.

It wasn't too late anymore.

The Hall was dim and Draco ran at Hermione's side, eyes sharp on the shadowy corners, the table set for breakfast the next day, the sounds of their footsteps echoing in the cavernous room. And then they were through the Hall, and nearly at Hogwarts's great doors, and hope made Draco run faster, toward escape, freedom. And then the doors of Hogwarts swung open, and shapes filled the doorway, and a hail of curses filled the air. Draco and the team skidded to a halt and wordlessly cast_ protegos_, batting the curses away. The Death Eaters and their student admirers – Draco spotted two Slytherins, two Ravenclaws and a Hufflepuff before the group broke rank and he lost count – charged forward, wands swooping and slashing through the air.

Curses and hexes filled the room around him and Draco lost sight of Hermione almost immediately, his heart juddering and breath catching as he flung himself into the fight. The two Slytherins he'd noticed before faced off against him, both using verbal spells, and Draco sneered at the pair of them. This would be too easy, even only using stunners and binding spells. "Traitor!" the girl screamed, and tried to cast the Cruciatus, and even though Draco didn't block or dodge, it barely twinged him. "_Child_," he replied mockingly, the three of them circling around and around. He cast a stupefy, and then a _petrificus totalus_, and the boy fell to the _petrificus_, the girl's eyes darting to her fallen comrade with horror and fear. Draco lifted his wand, readying to block, and when the girl shot several spells at him in quick succession, he was ready, flicking them away like they were irritating insects. "You _bastard!_"

"He's not dead, you stupid chit!" Draco yelled over the noise of the battle, and ducked as an orange beam of light arced toward him from the right, and the girl got in a slashing curse, catching Draco in the side. It _hurt_ and he stumbled and she opened her mouth, face contorted with hatred, and he lifted his wand and yelled, "_Somnium!_" and she collapsed in an unconscious heap. Draco gasped at the pain searing through his side and staggered back toward a wall, pressing his maimed arm's bracer against the slash in his side. His arm came away wet with blood, and he swore and cast a quick minor healing charm, which didn't seem to help much. The battle was chaos and his wound hurt and he couldn't see Hermione. Draco staggered out into the thick of the duelling, the world all in lights and blood, screams and shouted curses echoing in his ears deafeningly.

His eyes fell on the Hufflepuff girl, who was aiming at a distracted Lupin, who, along with Kingsley, protectively flanked Potter. The three of them were fighting Nott Senior, Theo, and Amycus Carrow. Draco pulled his wand up, "_Repulso!_" The Hufflepuff flew through the air and hit one of the stone walls with a sickening crack. _Did I kill her?_ He felt sick at the possibility, but he kept going, spinning as a hex flew past his head and shooting three stunners in a row, catching a Ravenclaw in the chest and dropping him. A flying body slammed into his abdomen, and he was knocked from his feet, hitting the ground with a crack as the back of his head struck the floor. "Hhhh…" Draco gasped for air, winded and panicking, unable to see anything, the body on top of him leaking blood in his eyes – his fucking _eyes_ and his _mouth oh fuck his mouth_ – and he couldn't see if it was the enemy or one of the Order. Hermione… Not Hermione, please not Hermione, he thought with his chest tight from more than just the weight of the body.

Draco shoved at the dead weight and rolled the body off him – feeling breasts as he clawed his way out from underneath, and his heart stopped even as disgust at touching a dead person's breasts wormed sick in his stomach. "_No!_ No, no-no-no-_no_…" The denials spilt frantic from his mouth as he rolled the body over, and then he saw the dead face of a Slytherin – a sixth year he hadn't known well, and he sobbed with relief that it wasn't Hermione. Just some dead girl and he retched onto the floor as he took in the gaping hole in her belly where her guts and organs were spilling out. Draco's hand squished in a rope of intestine as he tried to stagger to his feet, and he gaped in horror and a hollow moan of revulsion slid from his throat as he shoved himself away from the girl, wiping his hand on his chausses. It didn't help – they were already wet with the girl's blood and now his hand and wand were smeared with _that_ too. "Ohhh…" Draco moaned and vomited again, his bile spattering the floor.

"Malfoy! Some bloody help here?" Weasley's cry broke through Draco's stunned horror and he moved without thinking, on his feet and running to Weasley. The redhead was duelling Alecto; Draco's mind noted inanely that Weasley was really quite fucking excellent, and he scowled. The dead girl was forgotten for now. Draco flung a "_Diffindo_," as Weasley's wand spewed a non-verbal spell – a nasty one by the way Alecto reacted at the sickly colour, flinging up a strong shield _and_ ducking. "Where's Granger?" Draco gasped, and Weasley shouted, "Don't bloody know. But 'Mione can handle herself. _Repulso!"_

"_Incendio!_ Did you see her fucking – _protego! _– back, Weasley? Fucking _shredded_. Don't know how she's still standing!" Draco screamed, trying to speak coherently _and_ battle Alecto without being killed. He and Weasley actually weren't half bad as a duelling team – beginning to wear the more experienced witch down, her blocks getting sloppier by the second. "Fucking _bitch_," Weasley grunted, wand flicking madly, spells shooting rapid fire, quicker than Draco could manage with his left hand. "_Incendio!_" Draco yelled and Alecto shrieked as the spell got through her shield and her clothes caught ablaze. She put them out with a wild wave of her wand though, and advanced on Draco and Weasley, eyes mad with fury and pain, and as she spun her wand through the air with a non-verbal spell aimed straight for Weasley, the redhead yelled, "_Reflectere!_"

And then they were both nearly sick as Weasley's mirror spell – a risky one to attempt, it was a tricky one that – reflected Alecto's spell back on her, and her skin tore from the muscle beneath. She _shrieked_, the sound of anguish and death, and toppled, her skin littering the floor around her like ragged items of clothing. "Oh _bloody hell_," Weasley retched as they stared at her horrified, too stunned to think of the battle around them, "I didn't know. I – I didn't _know_. I wouldn't have…"

"She was going to do it to you," Draco pointed out, trying not to vomit and ruin his image, "Typical fucking Gryffindor, upset over the way your enemy died." Flippancy helped easy the horror, he was discovering.

"Oh, go to hell Malfoy. Just because I'm not an amoral bastard like –" Weasley cut off as both of them felt an invisible force hit them head on, hurling them high into the air. Draco swore, a choked, garbled sound, and tried to twist his body around, hitting the ground with his maimed arm instead of his head. He _heard_ it snap, like brittle, dry kindling, and the sudden pain made his head swim. _Fuck._ "Weasley? Weasley?" A weak moan came from beside him, followed by an animalistic growl, and Draco skittered back onto his knees and then his feet as he saw Amycus on top of Weasley, his wand jabbing into the hollow of Weasley's throat. "You're going to pay for that, scum."

_Shit. _Where was Draco's wand? Oh _fuck_, he didn't have it. His eyes searched the ground frantically, and then he saw it, scrambling to grab it just as Amycus snarled, "_Crucio!_" Weasley screamed and Draco's head whipped around at the sound, pausing in grabbing for his wand. Weasley was spasming and twitching under Amycus, and the filthy fucker was _rubbing _himself on Weasley as the redhead convulsed and screamed, and Draco could see Amycus's grin from here. "…Gonna enjoy this, boy…" Draco heard a snippet of what Amycus was snarling through a second's break in the noise of battle, and then his hand closed over his wand.

"Hang on Weasley!" Draco spun to his feet like a drunk, his maimed arm hanging limp at his side, which still leaked blood from the slash the _fucking _Slytherin girl had inflicted. He aimed shakily and then he heard a familiar voice cry a fury-filled, "_Reducto!_" Amycus Carrow exploded; chunks of him spattering against Draco, several metres away. Weasley was coated in bits of Amycus, and saturated in his blood, and rolled over, still spasming, and vomiting on the ground like he was trying to bring up his stomach whole.

"Ron!" Hermione ran forward, shaking like a leaf, also spattered with the blood of the man she had just damn well blown to pieces – her eyes only on Weasley and Draco felt a twinge of irrational jealousy. "Ron, my god, _Ron_ are you _okay_?" She fell to her knees by the still twitching Weasley and her hands hovered above him, not wanting to touch him and get Amycus's remains on her hands. "Oh my god, what did I do?" Hermione scrambled back, retching herself. "Oh Merlin what did I…" And as she got back to her feet and gingerly held out a hand to Weasley – who was too dazed to take it anyway – Draco saw something behind her.

Oh _fuck_.

"Hermione!" he yelled and cast a _stupefy_, but the stunner was blocked. "_Expelliarmus!_" Blaise Zabini yelled and Hermione's wand went skittering from her hand. "Fucking mudblood," Blaise spat, and Draco's heart ripped a little as he realised what in all probability was going to happen. No, no he didn't want this. "Blaise!" Draco yelled lifting his wand, and the closest person he had ever had to a friend, froze.

# # #

_Hermione_

Hermione turned around slowly; her hand stinging, feeling exposed and vulnerable, her heart pounding and the back of her throat tasting like bile. Blaise Zabini was there just a few metres away, his wand pointed at her chest and a spell hovering on his lips. "Blaise!" Draco yelled again and Hermione's eyes flicked to him; listing on his feet like he was about to faint, with his maimed arm hanging oddly and the right side of his armour torn and drenched with blood, tiny bits of Amycus's flesh stuck to his armour. Hermione swallowed hard as her mouth filled with the saliva that meant vomiting was impending. Draco's hair was more red than platinum and all matted, and his face was painted in black soot and crimson blood, both dried and new – and his eyes stared out of that gory mask, ice and stone, and _pleading_. "No. Blaise…don't."

"Draco." Blaise sounded disbelieving. "What are you _doing_?"

"Don't kill her, Blaise. Please. For me."

"What the _fuck_ are you doing here with _them_? Weasley scum and mudbloods? _These_ are the people you left us for? Abandoned us? I thought you'd run, to Brazil or something. I never thought…" Blaise's face was twisted with hurt and anger, and Hermione wondered if he was distracted enough for her to try going for her wand. Her heart felt like it had leapt into her throat, and it pounded hard and staccato as she edged a little to the left toward her wand. Blaise's wand moved to cover her instantly. "Keep still, bitch," he snarled, "I'm trying to have a _fucking_ conversation with my good friend here." Draco was covering Blaise, and he wiggled his wand to get Blaise's attention again, "He hated me Blaise! He was going to _kill_ me. We all know that. I was the whipping boy for everything that went wrong. I _had_ to leave, Blaise. And there was nowhere to hide but with them!"

"We were _friends!_ And you just turned your back on us – all of us. You were the one who said how _great_ it would be to be a Death Eater, how _important _the cause was – you were the fucking… And now you're fighting _against_ us?" Blaise shook his head, voice high and cracking with emotion. "That's not the Draco Malfoy I knew!"

Draco took a half-step forward, pleading, desperate, "We were wrong, Blaise. _I_ was wrong. Just please…for the sake of the friendship we had…"

"Come back Draco. Come back. If you tell the Dark Lord how sorry…if you give him information on the Order, where they are, their plans…?" Blaise grasped at straws, and Hermione realised watching the pair of them, that there really was some kind of bond between them. A certain close loyalty – of the strange and indecipherable Slytherin type. Neither of them wanted to kill the other – that much was clear. Draco interrupted Blaise, "He'll kill me. There are no second chances with the Dark Lord." Voldemort's title falling from Draco's lips made Hermione's spine shiver. She wondered if Ron had his wand. If he was conscious enough that he could take out Blaise. She didn't want to die. She didn't want to _die._ What if Draco couldn't kill Blaise? What if he valued his friend over Hermione? She didn't _know_. She didn't _know_ how much she meant to him. More than a friend with old loyalties and years of shared beliefs?

She gasped with fear and uncertainty and a sob shuddered out. Draco looked at her, eyes wide, then back to Blaise. "He'll kill me. I can't go back."

"Better to die with some honour than spend your days in the company of _this!_" Blaise cried and fixed his eyes on Hermione, readying his wand, opening his mouth. "Please! Blaise, don't. Don't. Just go. _Go._" Draco begged.

"You care about _this_? This _filth_?"

Draco gulped and his eyes shot behind Hermione, to where she knew Ron lay, still dazed from the cruciatus curse, probably. "I don't want her to die, Blaise."

"I don't even _know_ you anymore."

"I don't want to kill you, Blaise," Draco pleaded and Blaise curled his lip, shook his head as he stared at Draco with disgust and revulsion, "You'd kill me over _this_?"

"_Yes_." Draco spat the word vehemently, desperately, and Hermione stared at him. There was a little warm spot inside her that fluttered into hot life as she heard him say that, despite the situation. "I'm faster than I used to be, Draco. And with your arm…well, I'll take my chances," Blaise said with a bitter sort of smile, and Draco shook his head, "Please."

Blaise kept smiling bitterly; the most awfully sad expression Hermione had ever seen. Like he already knew, and this was all just a script to read from. Complete the part. "You won't do it. We were friends – we were like _brothers_. You won't do it, not over a filthy mudblood." Blaise paused, "You'll thank me later. You'll _thank_ me."

"Don't, Blaise…" Draco groaned the words, his face twisted and drawn with reluctance and misery, and Blaise whipped his wand at Hermione, who exhaled a barely audible gasping scream of terror, shaking all over. She stared not at Blaise but at Draco. _She didn't want to die_. "Please…" she breathed, a pointless plea, not loud enough for anyone to hear, anyway. Thinking it over and over, like a flash of a loop, _I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't want –_

Blaise screamed, "_Av_ –"

"_Avada kedavra!_" Draco's face was filled with hate – you had to _hate_, you had to _want it_, _want them dead_ – and pain, so much pain and grief it was written in every feature, and he screamed the words so loudly, and Hermione's eyes went to Blaise. The green flash hit him, and his face was terribly, terribly sad as the light faded from his eyes, and he fell. _You have to mean it_ – the words echoed in Hermione's head as she automatically sprang into action, no time to stop and think. She ran to her wand and scooped it up desperately, and the comforting feel soaked into her very bones, power and magic leaching through her. A movement caught her eyes, "_Incendio!_" she screamed without thinking.

A badly wounded, staggering Nott Senior burst into flames, and howls ripped from his throat as he stumbled at Hermione, arms outstretched and _screaming_. She recoiled and sobbed again, horror-struck by what she had done. All the pain and death she had caused. _Was_ causing. She sobbed and fled from him blindly, and then, "Hermione! Come on!" Ron appeared from nowhere, coated in Amycus's blood, and for a dreadful heartbeat Hermione's wand was raised and _Incendio_ on her lips again. Then she recognised him and lowered her wand, still dry sobbing and shaking. Ron was staggering, one eye twitching spasmodically, a chunk of Amycus's flesh caught in his hair. "Malfoy! Move you _bloody_ git!" Ron yelled as he took Hermione's hand in his blood-slick one and they wove drunkenly between the bodies of the fallen.

Hermione realised with dazed comprehension that the battle was over, and the rest of the team heading through Hogwarts's doors before reinforcements got there. She nearly slipped as she looked back at Draco, who stood staring at Blaise with his fist clenched around his wand and shoulders shuddering and jerking. There was a horrible look on his face, the sort of expression Hermione would have if she had just been forced to kill Neville, or Ginny. He was crying, she realised, tears cleaning wiggly tracks in the gore that covered his face. "Malfoy! Merlin's balls – _move it_!" Ron cried as he pulled at Hermione, and Draco turned away from Blaise's body and stumbled toward them, wiping at his face and only smearing the gore worse.

"Did – did we get them all?" Hermione asked faintly, and Ron nodded. "Yes – not all dead though. The wannabe Death Eater students are alive…" Hermione's foot slid on something and she looked down automatically and moaned in revulsion. A student – a Ravenclaw, throat slit, lying in a pool of his own blood, eyes glazed. "Mostly," Ron tacked on, sounding sickened. "God," Hermione choked and they ran on, catching up to the rest of the team, Draco silent at her left side, and Ron's blood-wet hand clutching hers tightly. Hermione's mind was a blurred jumble of the battle that had just taken place. Everything had been so chaotic that she could recall it only as flashes and snippets of gore and horror and _screaming_. She wanted not to think about it, but as her feet trod on stone, and then trampled grass beneath them as they ran toward Hagrid's, it was all she could think about.

The way Amycus had exploded. Nott Senior burning to death in front of her. And Draco's voice as he had screamed the Killing Curse at Blaise Zabini.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ So? What did you think?!

Next Chapter _Hogwarts, Part 3: Aftermath_ contains (not in order): Bellatrix, more gore, reinforcements (but whose), the aftermath, Ron snogging (guess who), and, _an unpleasant surprise_.


	21. Hogwarts, Part 3: I'm Gon' Brawl

_Author's Note: _Ohmigod, this chapter's finally done *collapses* It was fun to write, but also rather intense, especially as I've been way too bloody busy lately…but I wrote it as fast as I could, honest!

If you enjoy it, all I ask of you in return is revieeeeeeeeews :D Speaking of which, _thank you_ to those who review! And also those who follow and favourite – you guys are _also_ awesome!

Hopefully, if I succeeded in writing this chapter right, then you should almost immediately feel horribly sad and despairing, shortly thereafter lose your will to go on living, and then feel ALL THE SAD FEELS EVER. With a small dose of happy feels at the end :) But don't worry! Lots of happy next chapter – I promise!

Oh, and the title is from "On Call", by Kings of Leon

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Hogwarts, Part 3: I'm Gon' Brawl**_

_Draco_

Draco ran down the slope beside Hermione, all too aware it was Weasley clutching her hand, not him. It should be him, he thought. It was surprising how the little things, the minor things, could still be irritating, even when far worse had happened – was happening. He nearly fell several times as they pushed on down the hill towards Hagrid's hut, his exhausted body begging for rest. Draco's maimed right arm hurt the worst; it was even more useless now, and with every jolting step the broken ends of the bones grated together, the pain make his vision dance with black spots. But Draco could still see Blaise's face. Like a photograph overlaying the real word; those last few seconds when Blaise's face had been filled with a horrible acceptance and sadness as Draco screamed the Killing Curse, and then the curse had hit Blaise and he had been…just…dead. Just another corpse falling to litter the floor.

Why had Blaise made Draco do it? Why? Blaise had _known_ Draco would do it, had _known_ that even if Blaise had managed to kill Hermione, he wouldn't have had time to dodge Draco's curse. He could have just walked away. Draco's chest heaved with grief and exhaustion as he stumbled down the hill next to Hermione. He had begged Blaise to just go, just walk away. But Blaise had made Draco do it. And the worst thing was that he had actually done it. He had done it. Draco had killed the closest thing he'd had to a friend. He felt dirty now – and it wasn't just the fact that he had killed Blaise. Draco's _soul_ felt dirty; ashes and grease, like the Killing Curse had left a residue. Another permanent mark – except this one was invisible.

But Draco _wouldn't_ take it back, even if he _could_.

He stumbled on a tussock of grass and a warm hand grabbed his broken arm – further up, away from the break – and steadied him. Hermione. Rasping breaths filled the night air as Draco, Hermione and Weasley paused for a moment, catching their breath. "You have to keep going – we're nearly outside Hogwarts' anti-apparition wards. Draco!" She shook him when he didn't reply, and Draco winced and nodded. "You can make it," she told him, and her voice was low and intense and Draco nodded again, and made his leaden feet start moving. Draco would kill Blaise a thousand times over to save Hermione's life, and somehow that made him feel even worse. Guiltier. More like a murderer. It was one thing to do something terrible and regret it – that was something Draco had already learnt to live with. He had made so many mistakes he wished he could take back – but that was the point wasn't it? He wished he could take them back, do things right the next time around. But to do something terrible and know that he _wouldn't _take it back if he could – that he'd do it again… How was he supposed to live with that?

Tears ran down Draco's cheeks and he didn't bother trying to hide them, or the ragged sobs that hitched from his throat – he didn't give a fuck if Weasley noticed. Draco was coming to pieces; in pain, exhausted, and he really didn't give a shit anymore. Except about Hermione. There was nothing that could hurt him anymore, he thought, except for losing Hermione. She was in worse shape than him, and Draco didn't know how she managed to keep pushing herself onward, except that she was a fierce fucking Gryffindor, and they never gave up. It was only a little bit further; he repeated Hermione's words back to himself. They would make it. They had to make it. Then, "Hermione? Are you all right?" Draco heard Weasley gasp out, and he paused in his headlong stumble down the hill. Saw Hermione wasn't at his side anymore – was further up the slope, gasping, bent over, her hands on her knees.

"Hermione," he forced himself back up the slope toward her, "We have to keep moving." She looked up at him, hands still braced on her knees and brown eyes wide and wild with exhaustion and strain, "I – I can't…the numbing potion is wearing off…" She groaned, an awful sound, and Draco glanced at Weasley, at a total loss. What could they do? Neither of them were in any condition to carry Hermione out – between Draco's broken arm and blood loss, and Weasley's generally battered state and the weakness from the Cruciatus, they couldn't do it. "Hermione we have to _move_," Draco said and the urgency and fear in his voice frightened him. He sounded like someone about to collapse. He _was_ about to collapse. "Hermione, fucking _come on_." He shot another terrified helpless glance at Weasley, and the redhead stared back just as helpless, united for a brief moment in time by their shared worry for the girl shivering with pain between them.

"What are you lot doing? We have to _go!_"

"No bloody dawdling, this isn't an evening jaunt!"

The Weasley twins appeared out of the darkness, their flippant words belying their actual state. One of them was drenched in blood and a flap of cheek was hanging open – Draco fought back the urge to gag and look away – and the other was white as a sheet and limping badly; it looked like part of his foot had been fucking blown away. "'Mione can't…" Weasley began, and one of the twins looked grim and shook his head, "There aren't any choices. She has to move, whether she can or not."

"Here, the last of our _Weasleys' Wake Up_."

"Share it amongst yourselves."

Two vials were shoved at them, one from each of the twins. Weasley got Hermione to drink one whole vial, and shared the other with Draco. "Now hurry the bloody hell up!" One of the twins urged, and the five of them started staggering down the hill together – Weasley supporting Hermione as best he could, and the limping twin leaning on the other. They were a fucking ragged, useless looking bunch, and Draco hoped desperately they could get past Hogwarts' anti-apparition wards before reinforcements arrived. None of them were in any condition to duel, especially not adult Death Eaters, which would be the most likely reinforcements. It had been easy earlier, relatively speaking, considering most of their opponents had been students their own age or younger.

They staggered past Hagrid's hut, and Draco found himself expecting to hear Potter crashing after them, raging, _"He trusted you!"_ but that was stupid – Potter was ahead of them with Shacklebolt and Lupin and McGonagall, and it wasn't _that_ night. Draco's thoughts were all disjointed, despite the _Weasleys' Wake Up_, which was starting to kick in and give his shattered body a much-needed boost of energy. The moonlight thrown over the landscape faded into the background as again Draco heard his memory self scream the Killing Curse, saw Blaise fall. He couldn't stop thinking about it. Couldn't stop picturing it. Over and over. His thighs and calves burnt from strain, his side was still seeping blood far too quickly after all the blood he'd already lost, and his arm was sending shooting pains up into his shoulder. Just a little further, Draco told himself, feet stumbling and lungs heaving; just a little further.

He stared at the uneven ground before his feet and fantasised deliriously about what would happen after the team got away, _safely_. They would go back to Godric's Hollow. Draco would get his wounds tended and disappear down to the safe cave of his cellar – so funny to think of it as safety and home now. How things changed. So quickly. He would wait for Hermione to join him, later on after the exhausted Order members had drifted off to their beds. And then they could cling to each other and say all the things they couldn't say in front of the others during the mission. Luxuriate in her – her skin, her mouth, her affection. Just the two of them, in a separate bubble, with the outside world irrelevant for just a little while. Fuck, he wanted that so badly. Wanted it more than anything.

Draco tripped and fell, so caught in his fantasy that he wasn't watching his footing, and his teeth crunched into his tongue, his neck snapped back and _hurt_. Instinctive tears of pain sprang to his eyes, but he barely noticed the pain really – what were a few more minor hurts compared to the rest? Hands pulled at his upper arms and Draco blinked at Hermione dazedly. "Are you all right?" she asked; peering at him, face anxious and bloody. She still looked fucking gorgeous. "Fine," he mumbled and realised after a moment of confusion that someone else was holding his other arm. Draco looked around blearily and Weasley's head came into close view, and Draco recoiled at the sight. "You're a fucking mess, Weasley," he slurred, tongue swelling from the bite, stumbling up onto his feet and over the dew wet grass again. "You're no bloody oil painting yourself, Malfoy," Weasley snapped back, and Draco snorted weakly and kept on running.

Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.

Merlin, he wasn't going to get out of bed for a _week_ after all this exercise. "Pull it together, Malfoy," Weasley growled and shook Draco's arm hard. Draco blinked and tried to focus, "I'm all right." Weasley let go of his arm and Draco kept going, his legs no longer feeling like they even belonged to him they were so numb and sore. He could fucking do it though. If Weasley could keep going, then so could Draco damnit. He wasn't going to be shown up by the fucking redheaded git. Draco flashed a glance at Hermione; still holding his arm under the pretence of helping him, but her thumb was sliding in a jerky caress over his leather rerebrace. "Thanks," he said, just to get her attention, and Hermione flicked her eyes at him and smiled shakily. Draco wished he tell her how fucking beautiful she looked right now, how much he wanted to be back in the cellar with her. But all he could say was _thanks_. "Of course," Hermione answered, and the one word held a wealth of meaning, and Draco smiled. Then she turned her eyes back to their path, her booted feet falling with the clumsy heaviness of exhaustion.

"Not much further," Draco panted and Hermione panted back, "We can make it." Like she was trying to reassure both of them but didn't really believe it herself. "We will," Draco said fiercely, and then they and Weasley nearly collided into the back of the Weasley twins, who had skidded to a halt just behind Lupin, Shacklebolt, McGonagall and Potter. The four others were staring at the sky just in front of them, and Draco squinted, wondering what the fuck they were doing. Their wands were held duel-ready, and Draco shifted his grip on his. "What the fu –" And then he saw. Flashes of black that were darker than the moonlit sky, and moving here fast – too fast to outrun. Sparking darkly from spot to spot, growing ever closer. And then oily tendrils of black smoke _snapped_ to the ground just within duelling distance, and coalesced into eight people.

Snape, Bellatrix, and six robed and masked Death Eaters. Everything was still – even the air itself seemed frozen, not a single breeze wafting through the nearby stand of pines. "_Potter_." Snape drawled, and Potter said nothing in return – just stood silently, although his hand flexed around his wand. Draco heard a stifled whimper from beside him, and remembered suddenly that this would be the first time Hermione had seen Draco's _dear_ Aunt Bella since Hermione had been tortured at the Manor. Merlin, that seemed a lifetime ago now to him. The psychotic witch was grinning – the expression lopsided and _wrong_, her eyes filled with cruel glee.

Draco shivered, and flashed a glance at Hermione. She stood gripping Weasley's hand again; her braid dishevelled and little curls coming free of it, matted with blood. Her back was half-exposed in the rags that were all that remained of the back of her leather armour and shirt beneath – the gashes _fucking_ _Goyle_ had put there dark crimson in the light. Hermione's jaw was set, and her mouth a hard line, and as he stared at her, her eyes slid over to him, irises dark pools. They looked at each other for a long moment, and Draco could see the stark fear etched in her face, the exhaustion, the determination that surely was all that kept her upright. That and _Weasleys' Wake Up_, Draco thought vaguely.

He took a step closer to Hermione, wanting to take her hand but unable to, and his chest ached with the want. The small movement caught Bellatrix's eye, and she laughed mockingly, pointing with a flourish of her wand that made Lupin twitch with readiness, "Oh _look_, Lucius – it's your cowardly traitorous spawn." Draco swayed on his feet as though Bellatrix had struck him a physical blow. No, no. _No_. Not his father. Not his father. Draco felt weak and dizzy, and it wasn't just the blood loss and exhaustion. He shook his head in pointless denial. No. He couldn't do this. He _couldn't_. Not his fucking _father_. Draco hated the bastard for what he had done to Draco – part of him wanted Lucius _dead_. But oh _fuck_, Draco couldn't kill him. He couldn't murder his own father. His father who had once upon a time, a very long time ago, hugged Draco before bed and told him that he was proud of him.

Draco had just killed Blaise. Did the universe expect him to fight his father now, too? It wasn't fair. It wasn't _fucking fair._ His father would kill him if he could. Draco _knew _that, and that knowledge hurt worse than his shattered arm. And Draco still couldn't bring himself to think of killing his father. His father. _No_. That was asking too much. Draco desperately examined the masked Death Eaters, trying to figure out which one was his father. Hoping Bellatrix was just playing a cruel joke. He felt pressure on his booted foot and tore his eyes away from the unidentifiable Death Eaters, looked down. It was Hermione's foot on his, her boot pressing rhythmically down on his boot – the best way that she could discreetly show affection. He felt a choked sob bubble in his throat and swallowed, smiled at her, a hollow, flimsy expression. But her touch was a reminder that he wasn't alone, at least.

Draco had _someone_ who gave a fuck.

"Oh, and look! It's the little mudblood I had a lovely play with, who Draco let _escape_ –" Bellatrix crowed and the pressure vanished from Draco's foot as Hermione swung her wand forward and screamed, "_Crucio!_" Venom saturated her voice, and her face was twisted in a mask of hate, but Bella just pirouetted and neatly dodged the curse, laughing shrilly all the while. "Oh Luci – I think she wants to play some more! Shall we _indulge_ her?"

"Don't you touch her!" Weasley roared and shot another curse at Bellatrix, whose face hardened into a snarl as she crouched slightly and blocked the curse with a snap of her wrist. And in that moment, the stand off, the evening's taut stillness…it was all shattered. And the battle none of the Order team were in any shape to fight, began. Shacklebolt and Lupin moved forward in unison, shouting at Potter to get back – who of course ignored them and charged straight at Snape. McGonagall was duelling like a dervish, her elderly form twisting and driving forward as she battled two anonymous Death Eaters, and Draco wondered which of the Death Eaters was his father. He didn't know if he was glad he couldn't tell or not. Everyone was fighting to kill – no Death Eater allied students to feel bad about killing, and Draco blocked a hex and flung one back at a faceless Death Eater, not sure if he wanted it to be his father or not.

Hermione was just in front of him, blocking a barrage of spells from Bellatrix, and Draco and Weasley both shot spells at the same time, and one of them hit Bellatrix and threw her back a few metres. Hermione broke and ran for the mad witch. Weasley was hot on her heels, and Draco behind him, legs pumping as he ran straight through the battlefield without paying any heed to the curses zipping by his head. There was no way Hermione could handle Bellatrix on her own – not in the state she was in; half dead in comparison to Bella's fresh fighting-fit condition. Even with him and Weasley to fight beside Hermione, Draco knew full well that there was a large chance they could die. They were wrecks – broken and battered and barely standing, and Bella was a wicked fucking dueller. Her insanity was, if anything, an advantage.

Then Draco felt the air whoosh out of him as an invisible force impacted his chest and he flew straight backward, heels dragging along the grass, and he convulsed as pain from the spell sparked through him – and then he landed on his back, _hard_. Hermione. Fuck, _Hermione_! He had to get to her – she needed him. Draco was flat on his back, spreadeagled on the damp grass, staring up at the stars and still trying to draw breath, his lungs screaming for air. _Get up get up get up_, part of his brain was telling him, and the other part just said, _breathe!_ Draco wrenched in a breath and his lungs expanded and the spots in his vision disappeared, although his ears were ringing and everything sounded very, very far away. _Hermione_.

On his feet again, staggering drunkenly. Whirled around in a circle, the battle flashing blurry and bright around him, and Draco saw a Death Eater gliding toward him, wand raised. He gritted his teeth and put all his energy and focus into a nonverbal cutting hex that tore through the Death Eater's robe and deep into their chest, a great gash opening up on dark skin. Not his father, he thought, and let go of the petrified breath he had been holding. Blood poured dark from the wound in the moonlight, and Draco felt ill as the Death Eater staggered, swayed, and sat down hard on the grass. Touched their chest with what looked like surprise, and then fell back, unconscious or dead – Draco didn't give a fuck which.

_Hermione_.

Draco looked around, automatically shielding and blocking as curses and hexes hurtled both randomly and purposefully toward him, casting hexes at any Death Eaters he saw, but none of his spells got through their fucking blocks. His eyes fell on Hermione – with Weasley, still duelling Bellatrix. _Not dead_, thank Merlin. Draco started a limping, desperate dash toward Hermione, casting wildly as he crossed the battlefield once more. Straight through the centre of the madness, and missing death by a hair more than once as stray curses filled the air around him. Draco automatically noted the Order members as he stumbled-ran, and they were all still alive, if only barely holding their own. And then a Death Eater stepped straight into his path and Draco flung a _diffindo_, and it was blocked and Draco recognised the flourish of the block, and he skidded to a stop, heels digging into the soft turf.

Stared at the Death Eater, who waved his hand over his face and revealed the familiar features of Lucius Malfoy.

Draco made himself hard; features turned to cold stone, and if Hermione had seen him, she would have turned her face away, unable to look at him. He was blood-streaked icy contempt, and he looked just like the Malfoy who had tormented her throughout school – a superior, arrogant bastard. And ironically, just like his father. But Draco didn't know that – he just refused to give the man who had disowned him the pleasure of seeing his pain, his confusion. "Father," Draco said, coolly.

"I disowned you, traitor. You are no longer a son of mine."

"I wish that were true, father." Draco's lip curled, "You have _no idea_ how much I wish that were true."

"Where is my wife?" His father snarled the words, his eyes – so like Draco's only bluer – were narrowed and filled with nothing but disgust and hate, and Draco smiled faintly, tipping up one corner of his mouth. "She's safe, somewhere with the Order. Where you will never find her." A heartbeat passed as Lucius Malfoy struggled with his emotions. Draco knew that his mother had always been the world to his father. Nothing else had ever mattered quite as much as her, and there was a certain pleasure in keeping her from him; in hurting his father like this.

Then Lucius sneered. "You point that wand at me like you mean to use it, boy."

"I do," Draco said, jaw set, his maimed arm sending pain darting through him, the gash in his side stinging and burning like fire. He straightened his shoulders and forced himself to stand tall and steady despite the weakness that pervaded his body.

"Well go on them, boy. What are you waiting for?" his father mocked, eyes glinting. Draco's mouth trembled and contorted with the effort not to cry and open himself to further derision, tears welling in his eyes and blurring his vision. He was furious and broken; so fucking angry with his father for _everything_.

But then he looked at Lucius, and behind the distant contempt Draco could see the man that he had worshipped as a child. Who had praised him and encouraged him – or been angry and disappointed in his son. Who had sometimes been cruel and sometimes been kind, and Draco had never known which one it would be when he approached Lucius. Never known whether to expect a kind look or a cruel blow, and all Draco had ever wanted as child was to make his father proud of him. He had only ever wanted to please him. Draco's gore and soot smeared face crumpled and he stared at his father helplessly, trapped – not knowing what to do.

"Can't do it then? Hmm. Just as I thought," Lucius mused, icy eyes filled with unsurprised disappointment, and distaste. "You don't even have the temerity to defend yourself against me. I suppose part of the blame rests on me… I should have never let your mother coddle you."

Draco's chin quivered and his mouth twisted with hatred. "What did you _expect_ from me, father? What did you fucking _want?_ I'm not a monster; I'm not like _you!_"

"I expected – I _wanted_ you to grow to be a man, not some snivelling abomination!" Lucius roared. "I expected you to do your duty to the Dark Lord, even if you found that duty distasteful! And I expected you to take your punishment like a grown man! Not to flee like a _coward_, taking _my wife_ with you! Keeping her from me!"

The battle rage on around them, but aside from casting the occasional automatic shielding charm, neither man paid any attention to the fighting.

Draco stared at his father in disbelief. "You took my _hand!_ You maimed me! You fucking _bastard_,was I supposed to just _take_ that?"

"_Yes!_"

Draco shook his head slowly, denying his father's words, not wanting to hear them. His chest felt like it had been wrenched open and his heart torn out. The memory of the mostly happy childhood that Draco had clung to was set to flame and consumed before his eyes. There was nothing left but hate and pain. "I hate you!" he screamed like a child at Lucius and his wand flashed. His father blocked the curse Draco had furiously thrown like it was _nothing_, and laughed at Draco. _Laughed_. Draco threw another curse, and another, and another – frantic and raging and growing ever sloppier, and Lucius, as dispassionate as if he truly felt no emotion, just flicked them all away.

And then Draco stood gasping and swaying with pain and exhaustion in front of his father, and Lucius spat out, "_Crucio_," and Draco sobbed once before he crumpled to the ground. Twitching, convulsing agony, tearing through his injured body like fire and ice, his teeth clacking together as he spasmed. Bit his tongue. Maimed and broken arm flopping limply about, an agony in itself. Back arched and eyes wide open, looking up at the starry sky. And through the agony, all Draco could form into coherent thought was; you have to _mean_ it; he hates me. He hates me. And the pain went _on_ and _on_ and Draco wanted to die. He would rather be dead. His head was thrown back and his fist clenched so hard his short, ragged nails drew blood from his palm, booted feet drumming spasmodically against the grass. It went _on _and _on_, and it hurt. It _hurt_. _It hurt_.

Then the pain just _stopped_ and Draco's body went blessedly limp, save the twitches of the after-effects. "Retreat!" he dazedly heard someone cry, and recognised Snape's voice. "Retreat!" his ex-Head of House called again, and Draco wondered blearily _why_. Had the others really done so much better than Draco? Was he so _weak_? And then Draco heard yells and cries carrying on the night air, and the noise didn't sound like Death Eaters. He tried to push himself up so he could see what was happening, but the tremors from the extended Cruciatus were too severe, especially when combined with his already wounded condition, and Draco fell back to the grass.

A moment later Hermione's face came into view, blocking out the star-scape Draco was dully staring up at. Where she wasn't blood-spattered she was deathly pale, and looked as though she could barely stand. "Draco," she said his name full of worry and relief, and Draco coughed weakly and attempted a lopsided smile. "Hermione. You're all right?" His voice was raspy and cracked, and it hurt to talk. He thought he might have a broken rib. Hermione nodded. "A – Aberforth and Angelina refused to wait at the Hog's Head after Angelina discovered she couldn't get through to the Room." She wobbled and then folded gracelessly to the grass next to Draco, sitting sprawled by his side and whimpering with pain. "They came to rescue us – all the people who were stationed in the Room with McGonagall came to rescue us," she finished after a moment.

Draco shut his eyes and laughed weakly with utter relief. "Rescued," he murmured quietly, and then felt warm, blood-sticky fingers curl around his. Draco squeezed, and Hermione squeezed back and then let go after too short a time. Draco didn't want to let her go, but he did, chest aching and eyes opening, staring up at her face. Hermione looked down at him and smiled beatifically, the expression at complete odds with her battle-bloodied appearance. Draco drank in the weary serenity and relief written between the smears of dirt and blood on her face as she sat there with him – her eyes fixed on the starry horizon as they waited for their rescuers to come and help them up. Tend the worst of their wounds. Go back to Godric's Hollow. To safety.

They were both silent, but they didn't need to speak – there would be plenty of time for that later.

# # #

_Hermione_

They stumbled in the front door to the house in Godric's Hollow, a weary, ragged bunch. Hermione was the first to spill through the door, with Harry, Ron and Draco close behind her. They had been roughly healed and bandaged before they left Hogwarts' anti-apparition zone, but they were all in desperate need of more thorough healing, and Hermione felt like collapsing in a heap. She didn't want to take another single step. She hoped they had gotten extra Healers in – there was no way Tricia would be able to handle their many and varied injuries. The foyer was cramped with people as they poured through the door; warm and brightly lit, and _home_. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.

Then Ginny flew past her in a blur of auburn hair and crashed into Harry – nearly knocking him over – and wrapping her arms around him and covering him in exuberant kisses. Fred and George made the required disgusted older brother sounds, but Ron was silent. Strangely so. Hermione looked at him, and he was standing there motionless, staring toward the doorway into the lounge with a funny expression on his face.

"Ron!" Cho stood frozen, leaning on her crutches and staring at Ron; the redhead coated in blood, hair matted, swaying with exhaustion. Then she swung herself forward on her crutches with clumsy haste, and Ron took two quick, stumbling steps forward to meet her. Hermione watched, stunned, as Cho's crutches fell forgotten to the ground with a clatter as Ron grabbed Cho and dragged her to him, pinning his mouth urgently to hers. They kissed, deep and desperate, Cho's arms tight around Ron's neck and he crushing her against him, and Hermione's jaw dropped. She looked automatically over at Harry, and his face over Ginny's shoulder was just as shocked as she was.

"Take it upstairs, brother," Fred commented easily as he hobbled past, arm slung around Angelina. "Yeah, we _really_ don't need to see that," George finished before getting squashed in his mother's embrace, and Ron ignored them both, finishing the enthusiastic snog just as Lupin hurried into Tonks' waiting arms. Almost everyone seemed to have someone to hold, and Hermione stood next to Draco, not touching him. She looked up at his face, sooty and spattered with dried blood, except where his tears had washed the dirt and muck away. "Are you all right?" she asked quietly. "I killed him," he said vaguely. Met her eyes and his were filled with grief and pain. "I killed Blaise," Draco said as if he had only just realised, and Hermione winced for him, longing to be able to comfort him. But she just…couldn't. Not in front of everyone. Not yet.

"And good job, too, Malfoy," Ron said cheerfully, handing Cho back her crutches. "You _fucking_ –" Draco was across the small, cramped foyer without warning, his fist smashing into Ron's face. Hermione gasped and cried out with angry shock, but Draco and Ron were already on the ground – too weak to stay on their feet. Cho hopped back and fell against the stairs, sitting down with a bump, eyes wide as she stared at the two boys. The air resounded with grunts of pain, both from the pathetically weak damage they were inflicting on each other now, and from the wounds they had sustained earlier. Draco ended up on top of Ron – his broken arm was strapped to his chest in a sling but his other arm was still useable, and he forced it down against Ron's throat, hissing, "He was my _friend_. He was my _friend_ you bastard and _I_ _killed_ _him_." Ron was choking and shoving at Draco. "Draco!" Hermione grabbed at his shoulder and tried to pull him off Ron, but his spaulder pulled away in her grasp and she went stumbling back.

But before it went any further Lupin and Shacklebolt waded in and tore Draco off Ron, flinging him backward. He staggered into Hermione and she caught him with a grunt, her back throbbing with a tearing, hot pain. "What are you _doing_?" She held tightly onto Draco's arm as he tried to charge back at Ron, who Harry and Ginny were helping to his feet. "_I didn't want to kill him!_ _You fucking arsehole!_" Draco yelled and tears were streaming down his cheeks and Hermione scrambled around so she was between him and Ron, her hands on Draco's chest, pushing him back. "He didn't say anything wrong, Draco!"

"Blaise shouldn't be dead! He _shouldn't!_"

"Yes he bloody well _should!_" Hermione yelled back at him at the top of her lungs, and Draco blinked, stopped struggling and stared at her. "What?" he asked quietly, and Hermione took a deep shaky breath. "Yes he should." She spoke quietly now too, voice trembling. "He was going to kill me. He was going to _kill me_ Draco." She met his eyes, all silver-grey and hurting, and wanted to make it all better for him. Wanted to strip away his guilt and grief, and the horror of having had his father use the Cruciatus on him – Hermione had seen that, but been too busy with Bellatrix to help him. She met Draco's eyes and her fingers twitched at her side, wanting to touch him; and she tried to communicate the want with her eyes, but wasn't sure if she had succeeded.

"I'm glad you killed him. So is everyone here. It's sad that he died, but he chose to be there. He chose it. And if he weren't dead right now, then I would be. I would be dead." Hermione tried to be gentle, and she thought maybe Draco understood. He flinched when she said that _she_ would be dead instead, and looked down at his feet, gnawing his lower lip and stopping with a wince as a cut split open and trickled blood. "He was a _person_. He was my _friend_. _I was him_ not that long ago – I was just like him. It's not a _good fucking job_."

Hermione glanced up at Ron, who was scowling at Draco and clutching his throat with his hand, rubbing it gingerly. "I know. But you can't blame Ron for feeling that way. And you _shouldn't_ have bloody done that," she chastised him snippily. Draco's mouth curled in a frustrated half-sneer, but he nodded shortly at her. Looked up at Ron, gulped and said, "Sorry Weasley. Lost my temper. Shouldn't have…" The words grated out reluctantly, but at least Draco said them. Hermione gave Ron a meaningful look, and he sighed and rolled his eyes, mumbled something that sounded like "…'S alright. I shouldn't have said that." And then a male voice wafted down the stairs, "Please, come upstairs now. We're ready to see you." The man in Healer robes at the top of the stairs motioned at them, and the moment went from thick tension to just plain awkwardness.

Hermione glanced at Draco and stepped back from him reluctantly, turning and climbing the stairs slowly – hanging onto the handrail and using it to half pull herself up. Damnit, she wanted to be alone with him. But they could hardly leave their injuries without treatment and disappear into the cellar together. The small group of them ascended the stairs, and Hermione and Draco were directed into a bedroom that had been converted into a makeshift examining room, three – most likely transfigured – hospital beds squashed into the small space. George was on the middle bed, a Healer already seeing to him. Hermione was directed to the bed on the left, and Draco the one on the right.

Hermione sat down and the woman Healer by the bedside drew a curtain around the bed with a flick of her wand, and noticed Hermione's back, drawing in her breath with a hiss at the sight of it. "Do you need some help removing your clothes?" the Healer asked, meaning Hermione's shirt of course, and Hermione's cheeks flamed. The Healer hadn't exactly said that quietly, and Draco was right on the other side of the room – not to mention George. "No, I'm fine, thank you." Hermione struggled out of the ruined armour jacket, the bracers and rerebraces and spaulders, and then sat patiently on the bed while the Healer tended to her back and other injuries, muttering lilting spells and smearing on various sweet smelling potions. Hermione could hear Draco wincing as his Healer did something – what, she didn't know; the stupid curtain was in the way. It would have been relaxing, the gentle care with which her wounds were being treated, except Hermione couldn't stop worrying about Draco.

What if she had said too much? What if he hadn't understood her? What he was mad at her and thought she was a horrible, self-righteous bitch? Hermione sighed mournfully, pulling her knees up to her chest as the Healer smoothed cream potions over her back and murmured spells. Too much had happened tonight. There was too much for Hermione's weary mind to process, and in the end all she wanted to do was curl up on Draco's bed with him. She heard the squeak of a mattress a few minutes later, and reached out, ignoring her Healer's inquisitive glance and twitching the curtain aside slightly. It was just George, leaving, his healing finished.

Before Hermione let the curtain drop back she caught a glimpse of Draco, sitting shirtless on the bed opposite, his head bowed. She held the curtain open a little longer. Hermione felt oddly shy, seeing him like that, without his shirt on, and butterflies fluttered in the pit of her stomach. A twinge of warm interest kindled in her – and was then quickly stifled as her Healer did something and sparked off a sharp pain in Hermione's back. "Sorry, dear. But we want to make sure you don't scar," the Healer apologised and Hermione let the curtain fall back, and buried her head in her knees, waiting, itching with impatience.

Hermione heard more movement beyond the thin curtain sometime later, and plucked it aside again, peeking out eagerly. Draco. Still shirtless, in just his bloodied chausses and boots, his torso covered with now faint and old-looking bruises and his arm splinted neatly, no doubt just until the Skele-Gro finished its work in a few days. His hair was still matted with blood, but his face was mostly clean, and his eyes were downcast. Hermione kept hoping Draco would look over at her, and made sure her knees were tucked well enough up against her chest that her breasts wouldn't show if he looked over. Her heart beat fast, and she nibbled at her lip, hoping he would look at her and give her some sign that he wasn't hurt or angry about what had happened downstairs.

God, so much had happened in general – things that they would need to talk about eventually, but not tonight. Tonight Hermione just wanted to lie on Draco's bed with him and sleep for a while, wrapped in his arms.

But Draco just slipped out the door, a limp in his step, without once looking in her direction. Hermione's heart sank and she felt a little sick, staring at the doorway he had disappeared out of as if he would reappear at any moment. But he didn't. Finally Hermione just let the curtain fall back and sat and waited for the Healer to finish. It seemed like it took forever, but at last she was healed and free to go, and with a towel transfigured into a shirt to preserve her modesty, Hermione hurried achingly out into the hallway. She was going to shower, and then she was going to go and see Draco. But then after her shower Ginny wanted to hug Hermione and talk to her, and Ron wanted to drink with her, and Mrs Weasley kept forcing hot chocolate on her and insisting she drink it all up. It was possibly the most frustrating night in Hermione's life.

In the end it was nearly dawn, and everyone had only just drifted off to their beds, and Hermione was amazed she hadn't nodded off at the dining room table, her hot chocolate mug full again in front of her. _Draco_, she thought and stood with a yawn. She could go see him now, and a nervous happiness suffused her. "Going to bed now, dear?" Mrs Weasley inquired and Hermione nearly had a heart attack as the matronly witch came bustling out of the kitchen, ubiquitous apron gone. "Oh, I, ah, thought I'd have a snack before bed."

"Oh I can get you something, Hermione."

"No, no thank you Mrs Weasley. You must be tired."

"I am rather, actually." Molly Weasley smiled at Hermione, "You're sure, dear?"

"Yes, of course," Hermione insisted and Mrs Weasley smiled and nodded, "Good night then, dear."

"Night, Mrs Weasley." Hermione smiled widely, and waited for Molly's footsteps to finished ascending the staircase before she wrenched the creaking cellar door open. She stepped down into the dim light of the cellar, and then shut the door tightly behind her, making sure it was locked, so no one could interrupt. Hermione turned around to head down the stairs, and Draco was standing right there, a step below her. Still shirtless but clean all over now, in low-slung dark pyjama pants, his hair damp and dishevelled. Hermione jumped and shrieked breathily. How on _earth_ did he do that? Draco's eyes were silver and bright on her face, and nearly level with hers being a step below her. His hand came up to her cheek; thumb stroking slowly and reverently over the angle of her cheekbone. Hermione's breath came shallow and quick as Draco's thumb played over the lines and curves of her cheek and jaw.

And then his hand slid into her damp, curly hair at the back of her head and pulled her close, his lips meeting hers; gentler than usual because of their injuries but no less sweet, and Hermione mewled with pleasure. _Finally_. Oh god, finally. One of her hands gripped his shoulder hard and her other arm clung around him, hand splaying flat on the bare, smooth skin of his back. Draco was warm and smelt like soap, and his lips were tender and soft, his tongue sending tingles and shivers through her. Hermione melted into him, and for a moment they swayed on the stairs, locked in each other's arms. And then Draco pulled away and sighed and smiled slightly, resting his forehead against hers, "Fuck, I've been wanting to do that all night." Hermione smiled back. All the weight was gone from her shoulders – for now at least – and she felt warm, and cosy, and safe. Delicious. She kissed Draco again, soft and brief. Blushed a little. "I have too."

They broke apart reluctantly to descend the stairs, hands linked together to maintain some of the contact they both felt starved of. Hermione led Draco to his bed, and he lay back on the pillows with a sigh, Hermione curling into him, careful of his injuries, so that her head was pillowed on his shoulder. They were silent for a while, Draco's fingers carding through her hair and Hermione's lightly tracing patterns between the bruises on Draco's chest and abdomen. They were both too tired and sore to do anything else, and neither of them were ready to talk about everything that had happened just yet. But this was nice. This was perfect.

"Well," Draco said at last, "We're still alive." Hermione smiled. "And the Horcrux is destroyed," she added and he chuckled, "Huh. So it is. I'd almost forgotten about that, you know. With everything that…" Hermione snuggled even closer to Draco, head resting half on his chest, and hummed a little sigh. "Forget about all that too," She told him, and shut her eyes, listening to his heart thud-thud-thud beneath her ear.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ Did I do it? Did I succeed in making you terribly, horribly sad? Was Lucius in character with dialogue and so on? Was it appropriately _awful_ and sad when he tortured Draco?

And what did you think of who Ron kissed?! I bet none of you expected that! *evil grin*

I thought that seeing as Ron went for Hermione, an intelligent, confident type of girl, Cho might be his type. Plus, they've been working together on missions for some months now, and Cho has a lot of respect for Ron's abilities, even if he's not the most academic person in the world. He's most likely saved her life more than once, and demonstrated his skill in leading a team and duelling on the battlefield many times over. In my head (although this will probably be covered later on in the story via minor mention) they have probably been interested in each other for a while, but only been flirting seriously for a few days.

Let me know what you thought of the chapter, and what you might like to see in later chapters :)

Like I said in the above Author's Note – expect the next chapter to be a nice happy one :) We'll take a (short) break from the angst and awfulness, and get some Dramione cellar-time in, hehe.


	22. Eyes Wide Open

_Author's Note: _I am so, so sorry this update has been so long in coming! Life has been crazy for me at the moment – the husband is working 10hrs a day 7 days a week at the moment, and the spawn are running me ragged, _and_ we're shifting in three weeks and I have to basically do all the bloody packing myself, _and_, probably thanks to all that, I have writer's block *headdesk*

But I'm struggling through it, and I'm sure once we've moved and settled into the new house, writing will flow easier for me again :) In the meantime, I'll keep writing, but updates will likely not be as super-speedy as my usual.

Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ to everyone who has been reviewing! It has been _so_ lovely to get such positive feedback, and it's because of not wanting to disappoint all you lovely readers that I managed to get this chapter written and posted. I'm sure otherwise I'd still be struggling with getting the first thousand words of this chapter written. So thanks! This is a Draco and Hermione focused chapter that's meant to give you and them a sweet moment after all the angst and bloodshed of the last few chapters – and I hope it's come out all right despite the writer's block and general zombie-ness I'm suffering from. *fingers crossed*

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Eyes Wide Open**_

Hermione floated up to consciousness, a vague discomfort dragging her out of sleep. The first thing she was aware of was a warm body snugged up against hers, and she smiled drowsily. Draco's arm was draped securely over her waist, and Hermione identified the splint on his arm digging into her side as the discomfort that woke her. Now she was awake it was even more uncomfortable, and she wondered whether shifting his arm would wake him. She moved slightly, and then realised there was something disconcertingly hard and hot pressing against her bum. Hermione froze and bit her lip. _Oh_. Oh dear.

She told herself that it was a perfectly natural occurrence, and likely had nothing to do with her. It was something to do with REM sleep, or testosterone levels in the morning… She couldn't quite remember which. Lately Hermione hadn't kept up on the Muggle education she had always tried to do in her spare time at Hogwarts – but then she supposed she could be excused, seeing as she _was_ fighting in a bloody war.

Draco shifted and his nose nuzzled into her hair, and Hermione dragged her mind back to the present. In bed with Draco. That was good. At a time when anyone could catch her if they were rude enough to use an unlocking spell. Not so good. Draco snuggling her with a rather prominent erection? Hermione went through good, incredibly arousing, dangerously tempting, and finally settled on sexy but awkward. They hadn't gotten to _that_ sort of carryon yet. Snogging, hands roaming above the waist, but Draco's, ah…penis? _No_, that was not a place Hermione had been yet. He moved and pressed closer to her, his erection rubbing on her bum, and Hermione worried at her lip. Despite telling herself that his erection was a natural response and unrelated to _her_ in particular, it was still so bloody sexy, and Hermione's knickers were getting noticeably damp in response, her skin flushing with arousal.

Draco ground against her again, hard and purposeful, and Hermione whimpered without meaning to and realised belatedly that Draco was awake. Had probably been awake since she had woken and just not told her, knowing him. Sneaky Slytherin. "You're still here," he said quietly and Hermione wriggled around in his arms so she faced him, both lying on their sides, her head pillowed on his left arm. "I am." Their noses were a scant inch apart, and Hermione stared into sleepy grey eyes circled around with deep shadows. "What about the others?" Draco hooked his broken arm over her waist again, and Hermione ran a hand lightly through his hair – a tousled mess that made him look relaxed and vulnerable; almost like an ordinary teenage boy. She could only imagine how awful her hair looked. "I locked the door just in case anyone tries to come down before we get out of bed," she half-yawned, and smiled lazily. That sounded nice – _before we get out of bed._ Dreadfully domestic and cosy, and Hermione liked it. It was what she wanted – peaceful, domestic, cosiness.

"Oh, so you won't be running off then?"

"No. I won't. Everyone is probably sleeping in after last night, and…I don't want to get up yet," she admitted, and blinked sleepily. "Neither do I," Draco smirked meaningfully, and Hermione smirked back, "Good," she said, and kissed him. Their mouths moved together, Draco's lips parting and Hermione's tongue darting inside his mouth, sliding over his tongue. Draco's teeth tugged at her lower lip, and Hermione's fingers curled into his hair as she clung as close to him as she could get; her leg threading between his two, his erection nestling hard against her thigh. Draco's mouth was soft and wet, and Hermione's knickers dampened further as arousal made her slick, and she moaned and rocked her hips out toward him with instinctive want.

It was languorous and so, so sexy, and Hermione's fingers tightened in Draco's hair, her clit starting to throb, little whimpers escaping from her mouth into his. There was nothing quite as good as kissing Draco. Hermione would almost – _maybe_ – give up _books_ if she had to choose between them and kissing Draco. Torturous delight. He slowly began to lose patience with the slow, gentle touches, and his kiss became harder, the lazy enjoyment slipping away and replaced by increasing, rough need. Hermione could feel it wash over him; the change from just luxuriating in the maddening pleasure of their kisses, to wanting more, and more.

Draco's muscles tensed, his teeth nipped and his tongue began to slip in and out of her mouth as though he was fucking her. Hermione shivered and moaned, the tip of her tongue tangling eagerly with his and sending thrills of pleasure into her core, clit aching to be touched, body – no, not body, she corrected herself, her v…pussy aching to be filled by him, used by him. Thinking about words and slang and technical terms and body parts made Hermione blush despite not even saying them aloud, but Draco's hungry mouth and skilled tongue swept that blush away. She didn't care what she called it; she just desperately wanted him to _fuck_ it.

He clutched her tighter with his broken, maimed arm and then winced, a small sound of pain that reverberated in Hermione's mouth and skin and bones and somehow, somehow made her just want him _more_. Her breath shortened and her blood thrummed quicker. She could feel it pulsing in her fingertips where they curled into her palms as she clutched fistfuls of Draco's hair increasingly tightly. His mouth broke from hers and Hermione mewled with unashamed need. Draco couldn't stop now. He _couldn't_. That would be too cruel. Her mind was blurred and tingling warm and Hermione whimpered and dragged on Draco's hair roughly, trying to yank his mouth back to hers. "Ow," he muttered and Hermione let go with a gasp, apology soft and stumbling, but Draco smirked down at her, smug and triumphant. "I love what I do to you. Love seeing the once-prim, know-it-all Hermione Granger flushed and panting, desperate for Draco Malfoy to snog the shit out of her."

Hermione blushed and tried to summon a glare. "Arrogant bastard," she panted sounding not at all annoyed, and stuck out her tongue. Draco sucked on it and she twitched and quivered, wanting – _needing_ – to come. Hard. "Roll over," he nudged at Hermione and she obediently rolled onto her back, feeling a little self-conscious. Draco propped himself up on his good arm and looked down at her intently, and Hermione stared back up, refusing to succumb to that self-consciousness. Draco's hair hung over his forehead and down into his eyes, an unruly tuft of platinum sticking straight out from his head above his ear. It was adorable. But then there was the rest of him – mouth reddened from snogging, grey eyes boring down at her, shirtless torso leanly muscled. "Fuck you look debauched, Hermione. You have no idea how fucking gorgeous you look like this," he told her intently, eyes burning over her flesh. Hermione covered her face with her forearm then, and smiled with embarrassed pleasure.

"So fucking sexy," Draco murmured and the mattress shifted as he moved between her legs. She could feel but not see him – keeping her arm draped over her tight-shut eyes. The hem of her thin top moved upwards. His hand, sliding up over the skin of her stomach, gentle and light and pushing her top up with it. Hermione throbbed and ached and bit her lip. Waiting. There was something extremely arousing about not being able to see what he was going to do. Where he was going to touch her. How. The cool air wisped over her breasts as he slowly exposed them, and her nipples crinkled and her breath caught with anticipation. Draco's long, elegant fingers swept over the underside of first one breast, then the other, and Hermione trembled. Light caresses, avoiding her nipples; instead sweeping the soft-firm swell of her breasts. Squeezing lightly. Nails scraping over her sensitive skin feather-light. Tickling touches that were always not _quite_ on Hermione's nipples, and she shuddered. Draco was going to drive her mad.

"Please." It came out without her even meaning to say it. And again with increasing desperation, "_Please_, Draco…" He chuckled and Hermione squeezed her eyes closed so tight she saw starbursts on the insides of her eyelids. "You bastard," she swore and her voice sounded husky and strained and not at all like her. The warm weight of a leg draped over hers as Draco shifted again, making little pained sounds; still battered from the mission – as was Hermione. She just didn't care right now. Draco's hand was resting on her bare stomach, warm and heavy. Hermione waited. Waited. Eyes tight shut, she waited. What was he going to do? The tense, anticipatory not-knowing was almost as arousing as what Draco actually did to her. Up until _now_.

Because then a wet, hot mouth enclosed one neglected nipple and Hermione gasped, back arching, a low groan sliding out. Draco's mouth bathed her nipple, his tongue dragging wet and rough over it, slow, torturous – delicious. "Oh _god_…" Hermione mewled and felt Draco grin. "Yes?" he lifted his head, "What is it?" and she peeked at him, seeing the teasing expression on his face. "Oh screw you," she managed to say in a strangled voice and then begged, "_More_." And his head bent to the other breast and Hermione watched in breathless fascination as Draco's mouth closed around her nipple; sucking, tongue flicking, teeth scraping just hard enough to make her hands fly to his head and fingers twine in his hair.

"Oh my _god_." She hadn't known it could be like _this_. This incredibly intense sensation. This complete and utter wet, aching, throbbing, tightening pleasure. Hermione twitched and moaned, the sounds escaping of their own accord. Draco's mouth. Merlin, his _mouth_. It was heavenly. Hermione was sopping wet and her cheeks were flushed and hot, and she _wanted_ him. Draco paused and let her nipple go with a wet pop. "Good?" he asked and Hermione answered him by way of shoving his head back down. He chuckled and then obediently licked and kissed his way from one breast to the other, and Hermione drank the sight of him in. Hair falling over his face, grey eyes sparking up at her through the white-blonde strands, a smug grin crossing his face as she arched up and mewled and whimpered uncontrollably, hushed, desperate sounds.

Her eyes fell shut as Draco shifted once more, and Hermione found herself waiting again. Holding her breath. And then his hand tugged at the band of her thin pyjama bottoms and Hermione stiffened. It was automatic, and she didn't mean to…and she _did_ want to go further. Merlin, _yes_. But… Draco sighed faintly and his hand slid up, resting on the soft flat plane of Hermione's stomach, the pads of his fingers scritching lightly at her skin. Hermione opened her eyes and looked into his. She didn't like what she read on his face; a slight unhappy twist to his mouth, eyes narrowed. He seemed…not pleased?

"Are you…? I'm sorry," Hermione tried awkwardly, and Draco raised an eyebrow, fingers demarcating careful circles on her stomach, "What? Why are you sorry?"

"I just don't – I'm not…" Hermione gave up and trailed off. Draco looked at her like he was annoyed and trying to hide it. Was he frustrated? God knew that over the past two weeks Hermione had given him good reason to be. And from the way Draco touched her, Hermione knew he was relatively experienced. Did he expect them to be having sex by now? Was he frustrated that they hadn't yet? The idea both irritated Hermione and made her feel insecure. She looked down, awkward and uncertain, chewing on her lip.

"_Oh_." Comprehension lit up on Draco's face. "It's fine, Hermione." That slightly tense mouth kissed hers and Hermione sighed. "Are you sure? You seem a little, um, annoyed? And I understand that, but I have boundaries and –" Hermione began defensively and Draco snorted, the sound cutting her off. "What?" She asked shortly and he grinned. "It's not you. Idiot," he said affectionately. "It's my arm. The pain relief from last night has started wearing off, unfortunately. Hurts like a bitch." Hermione looked down and realised Draco was resting on his broken arm. Merlin, now she felt like a right stupid git. She blushed hard and frowned, rolling her eyes and shoving Draco onto his back; leaning over him supporting herself on one elbow. "You dolt. Don't use your arm as a prop if you don't want it to hurt. Is that better, now?"

"Well, I'm still extremely sexually frustrated, seeing as you refuse to shag me –"

Hermione walloped him – lightly. "Arse." A pause. She still felt the need to justify herself to Draco for some reason, to explain why they hadn't done _it_ yet. "About the, um. Well. I just don't like rushing into things. Especially when I still don't know what this –" She indicated them both, "What this _thing_ is, or where it's going."

"Shit." Draco sighed and shut his eyes, a weary expression taking over his pale features. Every time that Hermione had tried to bring up their relationship over the past two weeks, Draco had shut down. She hadn't pressed the issue. Until now. After everything that had happened last night – killing people; Hermione had _killed_ two people – she felt unsteady, off-kilter. She had lost her centre, and she felt adrift, needing something stable, something clearly defined to hold onto right now. "We need to talk. I can't just…drift like this. It's not _me_, Draco. I don't _do_ vague." Hermione pulled his hand away from his eyes, and he stared at her, cool and grey.

"We need to talk," she repeated lamely, and Draco sighed. "What is there to discuss? Let me guess – 'Draco, we can't keep doing this.' Or maybe, 'Draco, this was fun, but it has to stop.' Or…" Hermione's heart clenched as Draco went on, bitterness icy spikes in his voice.

Was that really what Draco thought? Did he _really_ think Hermione would just discard everything that had developed between them, like it was nothing? Did he really doubt her feelings so? It made her furious. Hermione was _sure_ she had shown him how much she cared. She hadn't hidden her feelings – in fact she was the one who wanted to talk about her feelings, and _he_ was the one who kept shutting her down. "You _prat!_" she burst out, "You stupid, stupid, _prat!_"

"Well, that's extremely reassuring, Hermione."

"Don't be _glib_. If you seriously think that I care so little about you as to just end this after _everything_, then you're stupid, and if you consider me so cruel as to _toy_ with you, then you're a prat." Hermione was snippy – she couldn't help it, she was furious with Draco. She didn't know where on earth this was coming from, why he would think it, let alone bring it up. Why would she have gotten involved with him – her worst enemy – and been lying here snogging him not two minutes ago, if she wasn't truly interested?

"I think that's a rather unfair assessment. I have perfectly reasonable cause to be concerned." Draco didn't look at her as he spoke. "I was a Death Eater. Your friends despise me. My mother hates you. My father wants to murder you. I've been an enormous arsehole to you almost the entire time that you've known me, and…" He looked at his splinted arm and the stump it ended in, at his other arm with the Dark Mark emblazoned coiled and sinister. "_Well_. All in all, I'm hardly a catch, am I, Hermione?"

Hermione had thought Draco had gotten past the despair that had consumed him when he had first arrived; she had thought the depression that had hung like a cloud over his head had been blown away. He had seemed so much happier lately – almost normal. Or whatever passed for normal for a Malfoy. But apparently all his issues were still there, he had just been hiding them better, or perhaps too distracted by Hermione at the moment to dwell on his worries. Hermione sighed and rubbed at her cheek, mouth pursed thoughtfully.

To say Draco had self-esteem issues would be an understatement. To say they were totally unfounded, however, would be a lie. Draco _was_ all those things, and they _were_ a problem – not quite so much to Hermione, obviously, but certainly in regards to how everyone else was going to react to their relationship. Hermione wasn't about to call it quits just because her friends didn't approve, but it made things…difficult.

Hermione desperately wanted to tell him those three words that nestled in her chest and lurked in the deep down regions of her mind, but she didn't. She didn't want to say them for the first time in response to a list of Draco's failings as a plaster to cover his wounds, or as some sort of meaningless reassurance. It felt like saying that she loved Draco – she _loved _him, she thought giddily – right now would taint those feelings somehow. When Hermione admitted how she felt about him, she wanted the moment to be _right_. And, to be honest, Hermione would prefer it if Draco said those three words first, she thought with a smirk. That was, of course, if he even felt that way.

She opened her mouth, and then paused and shut it again. Scrabbling for something to say that would reassure him. She didn't want to tell Draco that she didn't care and none of it mattered, because she _did_ care, and it _did _matter. "Yes," she said at last, "Yes, that's all true." Hermione saw him flinch at that, and hurried on, "But if something is worth it, then despite the obstacles in your way, you fight for it. You find a way to make it work. Right?"

Draco flashed her a narrowed glance. "And you think I'm worth it?" Hermione shrugged. " I wouldn't be here, doing this, if I didn't." Draco was still doubtful, almost suspicious. The moment stretched on and on, and then he finally said in a very small, very un-Malfoy voice, "Why?"

Hermione thought about it. She wasn't going to toss him some glib answer that really meant nothing, just sounds in the air. She cared about him enough to be honest, meaningful. His eyes were clouded grey and anxious on hers, distracting her, and Hermione frowned.

"It's taking you an unnervingly long time, Granger." He was using her last name; he hardly ever did that anymore, unless he was teasing or defensive. "With Harry and Ron and all of the others," she began, "I'm happy. Contented. Everything is simple and straightforward – familiar. But I've realised that as much as I love my friends, my relationships with them are…Well, I don't grow or change. I don't question things, or think differently about things because of the time I spend with Harry or Ron." Hermione paused, Draco's eyes unblinking on her face. "As much as I love them, I've been stagnating with them."

Hermione's fingers threaded through Draco's, and she looked down at their entwined hands, resting on his lean, pale chest. "But since you've been here – since I've been spending time with you – I've stopped stagnating. You make me question my preconceptions and ingrained perspectives. You challenge me, interest me, and make me think. I can have long, intelligent conversations –"

"Arguments," he interrupted.

"_Debates_," she said firmly and went on, "And I could never have those with Ron, or Luna, or Ginny – maybe Harry, but…no. No, it's only you that I can talk to the way I do. It's refreshing." Hermione's eyes traced over the sharp angles of Draco's face, his tousled white-blonde hair and steely grey eyes, that oh-so-kissable mouth – and lean, positively edible body, and she added with a blush, "And I'm desperately attracted to you as well." He snorted at her, expression dry. "Well that's good. Romantic attraction is usually quite essential in a romantic relationship." Hermione scowled. "Of course, you're also an annoying prick…" He raised an eyebrow, amused, "Granger, you wound me!"

"Oh shut up." Hermione grew serious again, trying to make Draco understand that he really _was_ someone that any witch would be lucky to be with. Despite all the complications of who and what he _had_ been, the person that he was now was most definitely a catch. "Beneath all the surface snark and arrogance though, you're really quite sweet. And kind. And nearly as noble as a Gryffindor – in your own way. You're…you're a good man, Draco. Or at least, you're becoming one." She looked up to his face from their joined hands and saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, hard. "Draco?"

"I don't deserve…"

"You do. You really, really do," Hermione told him earnestly, and Draco seemed so pathetically happy that someone thought he was a worthwhile human being that it hurt her. A person shouldn't be this broken, shouldn't carry this much doubt and self-loathing around with them, she thought. "I'm lucky," she said simply, trying to make him believe it himself, and his fingers tightened on hers. His eyes slid away awkwardly, his teeth nibbled on his lip. "Are you sure it's not just that I'm the only good-looking wizard in this bloody house, and you don't have any other options?" Draco tried to defuse the moment, and Hermione played along, saying honestly, "Well, as dashing as you are, Draco, there's always Neville, if a handsome bloke is all I'm after."

"_Longbottom?_" Draco was horrified and Hermione grinned at his expression, "He's quite hot these days – haven't you noticed?" Draco looked even more horrified, "_No._ I have most certainly _not_ noticed Longbottom's _assets_. My tastes lie in the direction of luscious tits and nice round _girls_ arses. Yours in particular." He squeezed her bum playfully, and Hermione squirmed in his exploratory grip, flushing. Draco inhaled sharply and his fingers clamped down harder, their eyes meeting.

That was all it took for the moment to change. Draco's irises became molten silver halos around lust-dilated pupils, and his hand slid from her arse to the curve of her waist beneath her shirt. Hand sliding up, up to cup one breast. Hermione's breath hitched at his warm touch, his hand firm and slightly rough on her naked skin. She bent her head and kissed him, a humming sigh in her chest, like a contented cat's purr. Hermione sucked his full bottom lip between hers, swiped her tongue over it, and Draco made an mmm-ing sound and rolled her nipple slowly between his fingers. Hermione shuddered, and Draco pushed her gently back onto the bed. His face nuzzled into her neck, hand still clutching her breast, tongue swirling over the pulse point in her throat. "Oh god…" Hermione buried her hands in his hair and arched her back, nerves humming and thrumming with pleasure as Draco exacted delicious torture on her breasts and throat; his hand roughly shoving her top further up and his mouth closing slick and hot around one nipple.

"Oh…god, Draco…I –" There was a thump and then a gasp, and Hermione opened her eyes, staring across at the cellar stairs with her heart in her throat, and Draco's tongue on her nipple. Harry stood there – the thump had been the cellar door falling shut behind him – and he looked like a Muggle who'd seen a ghost. Gaping with horror and anger and rooted to the spot; his face white as fresh snow and fists clenched at his sides. Hermione felt sick. "Draco…_Draco_," she mumbled, cheeks flaming hot as she pushed Draco off her and tugged her top down with desperate, jerky motions. Oh god. This couldn't get any more mortifying. She hadn't wanted anyone to find out like _this_. Just add Ron into the scene, and it would be Hermione's worst nightmare. "Harry – Harry I…" His mouth tightened and Hermione broke off, not knowing what to say, how to react.

How had Hermione not heard Harry come in? She should have been paying more attention. Should have _known_ the Order members wouldn't bother giving Draco the courtesy of not unlocking a fucking locked door. Hermione stood and ran her hands shakily over her hair in an unsuccessful attempt to smooth it, glancing back at Draco who sat up on the bed; shirtless and lean and so bloody _sexy_ – even in a horrific moment like this one she couldn't help noticing how gorgeous he was. Hermione knew how _she_ must have looked when Harry came in – sprawled dishevelled with Draco half on top of her, his mouth on her breast, her moans and mews of pleasure loud in the air… She wanted to sink into the ground.

Instead Hermione crossed the cellar floor with slow, hesitant steps as though Harry was some skittish animal that could be scared off – and in his case, if he took off he'd probably tell the others everything he saw as soon as he got upstairs. Hermione didn't want that to happen. She wanted to tell them in her own way, on her own terms, when she was bloody well ready and not before. "Harry, please, I –"

"Did you stay here last night?"

"I…" Hermione shot a helpless glance at Draco, who sat now on the edge of his bed in just his pyjama pants, hair rumpled and mouth kiss-swollen. "I-it's not…n-not _quite_ what you think…I did, bu-but…" Hermione stammered, and Harry's fingers slid over the end of his wand that stuck out of his pocket, eyes on Malfoy and hatred searing in the green. Hermione felt like crying as Harry growled through gritted teeth, "Really? It's not what it looks like? You're really going to try _that_ excuse after what I walked in on, Hermione? Because what it _looks like_, _what I think_, as you put it, is that you've been shagging _Malfoy_ behind our backs!"

"Would you rather we did it in front of you, Potter?" Draco drawled from his easy seat on the edge of the bed, and Harry looked positively _murderous_. Hermione moaned quietly to herself, and shot Draco a quelling glare. He was only going to make things worse – didn't he see that? "If we _had_ been _shagging_ it would be none of your business, Harry. You're not my keeper, and I don't owe you any explanations. But because you're my best friend… Draco and I aren't shagging. I mean…we're seeing each other; I guess. Or, um." Hermione glanced nervously at Draco again, not sure how to frame things – still not quite sure whether she could label what was between them a 'boyfriend/girlfriend' thing, or anything definite, really. "You're _seeing_ _each other?_ Yeah, I can see that you're seeing rather a _lot_ of each other." Harry snapped, and then made a disgusted face, "Oh god, I feel sick."

"We're in a bloody relationship, Potter," Draco interjected shortly, and Hermione sent him a grateful, shaky smile. Harry ignored Draco and stared at Hermione, white with sick fury and incomprehension – Hermione could read her best friend's feelings like an open book. "A _relationship_? A _relationship_ with Draco effing Malfoy? You've decided to fucking go out with _Malfoy_, of all people? Hermione, _why? Why?_" Hermione had no idea what to do. Was she supposed to just tell Harry it was none of his bloody business and to piss off, or should she try to explain things to him? She didn't _know_. Hermione didn't want the others to find out from Harry – and they probably would if she told him to piss off. He'd run upstairs and tell them everything. But then Hermione didn't think she should have to _justify_ her relationship – not even to Harry. Who she chose to be with was her business, not Harry's.

Hermione didn't know what to do. She looked around at Draco, but he sat there with perfect composure on his features, and no hint of what she should do or say. He raised an eyebrow, as if to say, _go on then, he's your friend, __you__ deal with him. _Hermione swore to herself and turned back to Harry, opening her mouth and desperately hoping that whatever came out would make some sort of sense.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ Well, I hope that chapter went okay – it's always hard to tell if a chapter has turned out the way I want it to when I have writer's block – I lose all perspective on what I've written and just stare blankly at the computer screen thinking, "Is this good? I have. no. fucking. idea. Urrrrrgh."

So feedback is extra appreciated this chapter! Critiques welcomed, and pretty, pretty please, tell me if you liked it – I could do with the motivation right now :)

The next chapter will (fingers crossed) be up within a week! I'll do my best, at any rate.

Coming up in the next few chapters: Arguing with Harry! Will he be understanding or will he expose their relationship? – Krum! Krum! Krum! Krum! Awkwardness and jealousy! – Sexytimes! More explicit! Below the waist! – Werewolves! – FEEEEELINGS!


	23. Trying to Speak

_Author's Note:_ Thank you my wonderful, awesome, amazing reviewers! You guys are what keep me snatching every moment I can to write in between all the craziness that is packing to move house while parenting a hyperactive 4 year-old and a very Terrible Two year-old.

I'm sorry the chapters are taking so much longer to go up than my usual, but it is what it is. Hopefully once we're moved it'll go back to updates every coupla days, but we'll just have to wait and see.

Anyway, this chapter is the rest of the confrontation with Harry – and I hope you guys will be happy with how I've had both Hermione and Draco react to Harry :)

The title is from "Endlessly" by Muse, although I actually listened to a lot of Kings of Leon while writing this one (And the last chapter title was from "Naked as We Came" by Iron and Wine, incidentally).

As usual, please excuse my likely typos – it's 1:30am right now, I got four hours sleep last night, and I am sooo buzzed on caffeine it's hilarious.

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Trying to Speak**_

Well this was fucking awkward. Potter looked like his head was going to explode, which was actually rather amusing – but Hermione didn't seem happy, which soured Draco's moment of _in your face, Potter_. Draco couldn't see Hermione's expression from where he sat, but the set of her shoulders and stiffness in her spine, the tremble to her hands at her sides told Draco all he needed to know. She was a wreck. Fucking Potter. He just _had_ to completely disregard Draco's privacy and break up the best snogging session yet, and humiliate and upset Hermione in the process. Damnit. As much as Draco enjoyed getting one over Potter, so to speak, as much as he enjoyed Potter's fury and discomfort, it just wasn't worth Hermione's obvious misery.

Draco wanted to get up, stride up the stairs, grab Potter by the scruff of his precious fucking neck and throw him the hell out. But Potter had a wand, and Draco didn't. Hermione would be furious. And then there was the fact that if Draco stood up, he'd be gracing Potter with his rather conspicuously tented trousers – Draco's body apparently hadn't gotten the message that playtime was over. So he erred on the side of caution and reasonableness, and stayed sitting. He did however refuse to put his shirt back on and smooth his hair – he wasn't going to act embarrassed by what Potter had barged in on them doing. So Draco just sat on the edge of his bed, shirtless and hair rumpled, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees and watching the moment unfold – his face carefully shaped into an expression of amused contempt.

He didn't want to give Potter the satisfaction of seeing Draco's creeping worry that in the face of Potter's pressure, Hermione would choose the approval of her friends over Draco. He knew that Hermione had meant what she had said earlier, and hearing her say it had been…fucking good. A balm to his soul, but… His train of thought was broken as Hermione stammered to Potter, "I-it's not…n-not _quite_ what you think…I did, bu-but…" It was painful hearing her so uncertain, so drained of all confidence. She didn't even seem angry, just…horrified, and ashamed. Ashamed of Draco? He wouldn't be surprised. Why wouldn't she be ashamed of him? Everything Hermione had said before, all those pretty words, what did they count for when her best friend was staring at her with disgusted disbelief? Except it wasn't just disgust and disbelief on Potter's face, but _concern_. Potter was genuinely concerned for her, like Draco had, what? Coerced Hermione? Forced her? Draco felt sick. He thought that last night during the mission, he had fucking _proved_ himself. Apparently not.

Potter's eyes met Draco's, hateful green searing into weary grey – too tired and hollowed out by _this_ shit to even summon up a proper return sneer, only managing a pitiful shadow of his usual arrogant, snarky look. Potter spoke at last, "Really? It's not what it looks like? You're really going to try _that_ excuse after what I walked in on, Hermione? Because what it _looks like_, _what I think_, as you put it, is that you've been shagging _Malfoy_ behind our backs!"

Draco clenched his jaw. He saw Hermione flinch at Potter's words, like he'd physically backhanded her, and her shoulders slumped. Fuck this shit. "Would you rather we did it in front of you, Potter?" Draco made himself relax, made his voice easy and contemptuous; forced back all the fear and impotent anger and weariness, and raised an eyebrow at Potter, smirking faintly. Potter's left eye _twitched_, and his face went taut as a death mask, skin stretched thin as parchment and pale as the same. His hand clenched around his wand and he looked like he wanted to _Avada _Draco on the spot. Draco felt a thrill of satisfaction, quashed when Hermione flashed him a teary, furious _stay out of it _glare. She obviously wanted to play nice.

Fuck.

Why was she catering to Potter's bloody unreasonable whims? This was none of the Golden Boy's business. _This isn't easy for _her, Draco told himself. _She wants us all to get along like one big happy family_, he told himself, bitterness saturating his mental voice; there was no way that was _ever_ going to happen. Fat fucking chance now, anyway. Potter wasn't going to listen to Hermione's faltering, embarrassed attempts at reasoning after he'd walked in on Draco plastered to Hermione's luscious body. Oh, those silky, warm breasts, and those dusky pink nipples that hardened under the ministrations of Draco's tongue. Fuck…delicious fucking breasts that Draco could worship with his mouth and fingers; could tease and torment, eliciting shivers and whimpers and desperate lust from her. Merlin. Draco's softening cock twitched at the tantalising memory. They had certainly given Potter a bloody good eyeful; Potter would never listen to Hermione's reasoning with _that_ image in his head.

But Draco would let Hermione do what she wanted; Potter was her friend after all. So he reluctantly closed his mouth, and resolved to say nothing more. If Hermione wanted to do this her way, then Draco would fucking well let her. Not that he had much of a choice about it, unless he wanted to make Hermione angrier, or more upset.

He frowned at the floor as Hermione stumbled out some pitiful explanation about 'seeing each other', the packed dirt floor chill under his bare feet. "You're _seeing_ _each other?_ Yeah, I can see that you're seeing rather a _lot_ of each other. Oh god, I feel sick." Potter responded vehemently, and Draco's lip curled. He looked up. He couldn't let that slide – that casual degradation of everything they had shared. Draco wasn't going to let Potter twist every good touch between him and Hermione into something dirty, filthy, wrong. Draco had to remind Hermione of _them_, of what they _had_, of what she had only just been fucking telling him. Had to remind her that they were a _thing_ damnit, and Draco wasn't just going to sit idly by and let that go. Let that be misrepresented as some sordid fucking mistake.

"We're in a bloody relationship, Potter," he said roughly, voice filled with contempt for Potter that overrode the underlying affection for Hermione his words carried, and then he clamped his mouth shut again. Hermione looked over her shoulder and Draco expected another furious death-glare for interrupting, but fuck he was _part_ of this situation – he had a right to stick up for himself and what he shared with her. But the look on Hermione's face was watery gratitude, and she smiled at Draco and he felt a little piece of himself melt unwillingly. Draco didn't want to be feeling those happy feelings in front of Potter. But fuck, she looked gorgeous when she smiled, even when she was blotchy and upset, hovering on the brink of tears. Gorgeous and grateful, and fucking _distressed_, thanks to Potter.

"A _relationship_? A _relationship_ with Draco effing Malfoy? You've decided to fucking go out with _Malfoy_, of all people? Hermione, _why? Why?_"

The way Hermione shrank back at that and shook her head made Draco afraid again. Afraid that Potter's apoplectic fit over what he'd seen would make Hermione change her mind – decide that maybe Draco wasn't worth it after all. She had _said_ a lot before, but fine words were often all too quickly retracted when they had to be backed up by actions. What if Potter tried to make her choose between him and everyone else – who would surely disapprove – and Draco? Who would she choose? Could Draco blame Hermione if she chose her friends, her whole _life_ over an ex-Death Eater with nothing going for him except whatever it was she said she saw in him? Draco clenched his jaw and his fingers twitched. He'd understand. He'd understand, but – yeah, Draco would blame her. He'd fucking _hate _her for that. He held his breath as Hermione stood silent, seemingly searching for words without any luck.

It grated on Draco. She shouldn't feel like she had to _explain_ herself to Potter. Shouldn't be ashamed and unsure. It was none of Potter's fucking business. Hermione looked back at Draco, like she was asking him to speak again, pleading in her wounded whiskey-brown eyes. Draco didn't trust himself not to bite Potter's head off – metaphorically if not literally – so he just shook his head minutely, a refusal that sorely tested his self-control. He was getting angrier and angrier as the seconds ticked by without Hermione throwing the nosy git out. Hermione frowned and her forehead furrowed, and then she turned back to Potter. "Why do you _think_ I'm with him, Harry?" she asked at last, voice a little stronger, clearer. Potter stared uncomprehendingly at her. "_I_ don't know, Hermione. That's why I asked you. I get that he's not one of the enemy anymore, but…it's _Malfoy_. If he wasn't wandless, I'd think he used the _Imperius_ onyou."

"Harry!"

"Well it's not like he hasn't done it before!" Potter protested, and Hermione flapped her arms at her sides, made a furious huffing sound that Draco half smiled at. "That was a long time ago! And like you said, he couldn't because he's wandless, so I don't know _why_ you even brought it up, unless it was justto be cruel!" Potter stared at Hermione as if he was seeing her for the first time, or like she was some strange new sort of creature entirely. Head canted to the side, those famous green eyes narrowed. "I don't get it. He was…telling the truth. You're really in a _relationship_?"

"_Yes_, Harry."

"It's not some weird sort of… Ugh. I mean, you're really telling me you have feelings for _him_?"

"Thanks ever so," Draco muttered under his breath, glowering at the Boy-Who-Unfortunately-Hadn't-Died. The next mission Draco went on – if he was allowed on one again after _this_ came out and everyone went into self-righteous conniptions – Potter was going to find himself suffering some unfortunate friendly fire hexes. Prick. "Oh my _god_, Harry. Yes. Is that really so unbelievable?" Hermione groaned, sounding like she wouldn't mind hexing Potter herself, and Draco felt fractionally better about this whole miserable situation. _Good_; Hermione was finally getting angry. It was about bloody time.

"It's _Malfoy_," Potter repeated with more contemptuous emphasis. "Hey, in the fucking room, here," Draco muttered to himself, loud enough that the other two heard – but they both ignored him. Hermione sighed at Potter. "So?"

"Hermione, it's _Malfoy_!"

"I am _very_ aware of that fact, Harry, and I am perfectly okay with it. It's you who has the problem," Hermione said primly – but her head swivelled and her eyes slowly traced over Draco's body. Draco felt a lascivious grin tug at his lips in response to her obvious appreciation; a welcome reassurance she hadn't changed her mind. And it triggered some very, very naughty thoughts as well. Draco suddenly wished Hermione would get around to telling Potter to fuck off, specifically so that they could get back to snogging.

"But –" Potter pinched the bridge of his nose; like he was trying very hard to pretend Hermione hadn't just ogled Draco like she wanted to lick him all over. "But it's _Malfoy_." This time the repetition just sounded piteous, and Draco smirked. "Is that all you're able to do, Potter? Just cry my name, over and over again? Because it sounds awfully…interesting the way you say it." Potter scowled, "Shut up, Malfoy."

"Oh, there it is again. Are you _ordering_ me to shut up, or _begging_ me?" Draco snarked, enjoying the expression that graced Potter's face as the Boy-Who Bloody-Lived snarled, "I'll fucking hex you if you don't shut the _hell_ up, you disgusting _prick_!"

"Harry, for god's sake stop acting like a child and letting him bait you! You know he's just doing to get a rise out of you," Hermione cut in, refereeing, "And Draco – _stop baiting him_." Then her voice rose sharply. "I'm getting sick and tired of _this_, Harry. You're never going to understand how I can actually care about Draco, and you're never going to want to believe he cares about me –"

"Why would I?"

"Oh just _shut up_, Harry! It's none of your business anyway! I don't _have _to explain myself to you! In fact, you're being a rude, insensitive _horrible _friend right now. Interrogating me. Questioning my choices. _Judging_ me." Hermione's fists were clenched at her sides and she was shivering – with suppressed anger and frustration, Draco guessed. He stood, movements smooth and lithe and stopped just behind and to the right of Hermione, so he could rest his only hand comfortably on the small of her back. Potter's eyes narrowed even more, but Hermione let out a puff of breath and leaned back into Draco's hand, sighed gratefully. "I'm _worried_, Hermione. This," Potter flapped his hands at Draco and Hermione, " This isn't _normal_. He made your life a misery throughout the entirety of school! He was an evil, cruel, arrogant prat – even _before_ he joined the Death Eaters!"

Draco's fingers dug involuntarily into Hermione's back, his teeth grinding together. The fucker. Draco wanted to lay the bastard out, barely restraining himself from trying. He thought maybe it hurt so much to hear Potter say that because it was true. Fuck, it was _true_. Draco tried not to think about the past these days – tried, but didn't always succeed. And sometimes what he had done, who he had been…just…hit him. Like now, thanks to Potter's handy reminder. Draco began to sink into self-loathing, but was dragged out by Hermione's voice sliding up several octaves, piercing and angry. "I _do_ realise that, Harry! I'm not stupid! I _do_ have a brain, and unlike you, _apparently_, I actually use mine from time to time!"

"But Hermione, I –"

"If you were using your bloody brain right now you'd realise how rude it is to just barrel in here and act like you have any say in my life at all! And to bring up what Draco used to be like is just _cruel. _ I know what he used to be like! We all bloody do! But he's not that person anymore, Harry. He's _not_." Her hand came snaking around and seized Draco's wrist, pulling his hand off her back and twining her fingers through his. Squeezing tightly. She shot him a smile, breath coming quick from anger and stress, and her fingers gripping his so tightly it nearly hurt. Draco squeezed back. Their hands were in full view of Potter, who stared at their link with worried, frustrated eyes, but Hermione just stared up at her best friend, chin up and back straight. Kept holding his hand, even as Potter turned that concerned-contemptuous expression on her.

Draco realised then that she had made her choice, and waves of relief, joy, and smug, defiant triumph all washed over him in a maelstrom. Hermione had chosen _him_.

# # #

Harry was being the biggest prat Hermione had _ever_ seen him be. She had no idea he felt so possessive of her. It was weird, and embarrassing, and it upset and just plain pissed her off. As much as she cared about Harry, and was mortified that he had caught her and Draco in such a compromising position – on that note, she _never_ wanted Harry to see her breasts _ever again_ – Hermione was furious with him. He was acting like a nosy, bossy, entitled father. Even her own actual father would get short shrift from her for acting like this; Hermione was an adult, and she was old enough and quite clever enough, thank you very much, to make her own decisions. She did most emphatically _not_ need her _younger_ – and frankly less sensible – friend trying to tell her that she didn't know what she was doing.

It was like Harry thought Hermione had turned into Lavender Brown or something – but Hermione's brains did not turn to mush when it came to the subject of boys. Or if it did, Hermione was aware of that and adjusted her behaviour to compensate for that. The fact that she and Draco hadn't had sex yet was a bloody huge testament to her ability to not do reckless things in the heat of the moment. Even in the midst of heated snogging when half her mind and all of her body was _screaming_ at her to shag Draco, she still managed to stop herself – or him – from doing it. She stared Harry down, her nose in the air and Draco's fingers laced hot and tight through hers. "I know what I am doing, Harry. And you have no right to try to convince me otherwise," she said clearly and firmly, pushing down her seething, indignant rage.

"I'm your _friend_, Hermione. Aren't I allowed to be concerned when you make a choice that seems out of character…that could likely end up with _him_ hurting you, just like he always has?"

"You shut your fucking mouth, Potter. I would _never_ hurt Hermione, and I don't appreciate you saying I would, when you don't know _shit_ about me anymore. _Fucking prick_," Draco snarled and the venom in his words sent chills down Hermione's spine. He wouldn't hurt her, she knew that, but to hear him say it – to hear him so _furious_ about what Harry said…it was good. It was good to hear him say that, angry and unguarded in front of someone else. Like it made his feelings really _real_. "I'm not talking to you, _Malfoy_, I'm talking to my Hermione, my friend." Harry brushed Draco off, and Hermione shuffled a little closer to Draco, so their joined hands were squashed between them. "Don't talk to him like that, Harry," she told her friend, and his eyes filled with betrayed hurt. "But he told me to –"

"I don't care. You started it, Harry."

"But –"

"_No_, Harry. You can't say that sort of thing. Ever. You don't know the first thing about our relationship. You don't know anything about Draco, and who he is now." Hermione's voice was as icy as Draco's nastiest sneer, and Harry's eyes went wide behind his glasses. Maybe she had finally gotten through to him. Maybe he might finally take her seriously. Hermione could only hope. She didn't want to fight; she just wanted to be with Draco without her friends hating it – hating him. God, she wanted that so badly. You'd think that with the war everyone would be too wrapped up in important things to worry about something minor, like Hermione snogging someone who, all right, used to be on the other side, but was on their side now. But people clung to old grudges even when they were irrelevant and pointless, it seemed.

Harry blinked, and some of his anger seemed to dissipate. He looked down the stairs at her stony face and said quietly, "How could I? You hid it." Hermione took a deep breath, let it out; tried to slow her racing heart. "Do you wonder why?" Her bitterness surprised even her. "N-no. I suppose not. I guess…" Harry shoved his hands through his hair and looked lost, and Hermione pressed her point, Draco's hand firm and angular around hers, soothing her. "Firstly, I'm a grown woman and I get to make my own decisions without you judging me. Secondly, Draco has _changed_ – or were you not there last night? Did you not see him fighting just as hard as everyone else? He…he saved my life. He…Blaise…" Hermione bit her lip as Draco flinched, and she glanced at him. Head bowed, hair obscuring his eyes. "He fought with us, Harry. He's not one of _them_ anymore. He's one of _us_. Whether _you_ personally like him or not is up to you…but he's not a bad person anymore." Harry opened his mouth and Hermione held up a hand, snapping, "No. I'm not finished yet. You're going to listen to me, and not bloody interrupt."

"I don't care if he pisses you off. I don't care if you don't get along, if you despise each other. But I love you both, and…" Oh god, she'd said it. She'd gone and said _it_. She looked at Draco and saw his grey eyes wide and shocked on her – wide and shocked and his lips were parted, and his pale cheeks were flushed with a faint hint of pink, and his fingers dug into the back of her hand until it _hurt_. "You…?" Harry began to ask hesitantly and Hermione tore her eyes away from Draco and looked up at him. She made her voice be steady, even though it wanted to shake and quaver like mad with embarrassment and adrenaline, "_Yes_. I love you both, and I just want everyone to be, well, if not _happy_, then at least civil and mature. Is it too much for me to ask that I'm not torn between my friends and my boyfriend?" A shiver of tears in her voice and Hermione bit her tongue, the pain sharpening and clearing her mind.

Her words seemed to have made a difference though – Harry's anger was completely gone, leaving uncertainty and discomfort in its wake. He seemed like he might actually be somewhat reasonable now, and Hermione held her breath – hoping. "I just…Hermione, this is a lot to take in. I…" Harry scrubbed his hands through his hair again, and it stuck up in unruly spikes. "I just…it's _Malfoy_," he said lamely, and Hermione suppressed an eye-roll. "Yes, we've gone over that _several_ times now, Harry."

"It's a lot to get my head around…"

Hermione nibbled at her lip and thought for a moment. "All I ask is that you…just leave it for now. I was thinking about telling everybody soon anyway, especially now Ron's apparently with Cho – and when did that happen, by the way? Did _you_ know about that?"

"No, it shocked me just as much as it shocked you," Harry said, shaking his head, and Hermione hmm-ed to herself. "Well I'm not the only one who's been hiding things, then. Because that was definitely not their first kiss." Then she shook her head to clear it and got her wandering thoughts back on track, "But after the way you reacted, Harry, well… I don't want anyone knowing. Not yet. I don't want to have to deal with everyone judging me right now. And people are horrible enough to Draco already – I don't want them being even more horrid to him because we're dating." Draco snorted softly beside Hermione, "Yes, I for one would rather not have Weasley find out when you," he jerked his head at Harry, "Are keeping me wandless." Draco's hand wriggled out of Hermione's – slid around her waist, and Harry stiffened with displeasure at the sight of Draco's casually intimate gesture.

"I don't like the idea of keeping secrets from Ron and Ginny. They're important to me too…"

"But this has nothing to do with them!" Hermione started getting angry again. Harry had no right to hold her wish for some bloody privacy over her head like this. Harry threw his hands in the air in unreasonable annoyance, "Ginny's my girlfriend! I tell her everything, and you want me to _lie_ to her?"

"There's a difference between directly lying and deceiving someone, and refraining from freely volunteering information, Potter. I'm quite sure even you can grasp that, so don't play dumber than you are," Draco sneered.

"Really not making me want to help you two out," Harry commented snarkily and Hermione scowled. "You're not helping us out, you enormous _git!_ You're just not blabbing about something that isn't any of your business – and if you hadn't blithely barged through a locked door in disregard of Draco's privacy, none of us would be in this situation!"

"I'm sorry, Hermione! I just…I hate the fact that you're…_with_… this arrogant, despicable –"

"_Harry!_"

"Well fuck you too, Potter. The feeling's mutual."

"You _fucking_ –"

"I swear to god if you tell, I will hex you!" Hermione said in cold fury, and Harry snorted, "Right now I feel like it'd be worth it. He's a dick, Hermione. How can you be with him? Why should I protect your _relationship_ with a bloke I can't stand? Quite frankly, I'd love to see Ron beat the snot out of him when he finds out."

Hermione shook her head. How could Harry do this to her? He was her _friend_. She understood he was angry and unhappy, but to be an arse like this was just beyond the pale. He might only be mouthing off and not really mean it, but it still wasn't okay. And he _might_ really do it. All he needed to do was open the cellar door, stick his head out, and yell it. Everyone would hear, and Hermione's foreseeable future would be a living hell of _concerned talks_ and _sideways glances_. Hermione glared at Harry. "You won't tell anyone because I'm your friend and it wouldn't just hurt Draco if you told, it'd hurt _me_ too." Harry looked down at his feet, and Hermione nodded with satisfaction – he didn't want to hurt her, not even if it meant Draco would be hurt as well, and worse.

"So you don't want me to tell anyone?"

"Harry, if you don't swear to me that you won't tell a soul about Draco and I, I will _Obliviate _you before you can take a single step, and you _know_ I can do that," Hermione threatened, and she meant it – although she didn't expect she would need to do it. From the defeated look on Harry's face, he wasn't going to tell. She hoped. She waited for him to say it with bated breath. And then the trapdoor was pulled open with a creak, and Hermione half jumped out of her skin, Draco's arm whipping away from her and back to his side. She took a quick step-shuffle away from him, heart pounding in her chest like a herd of frightened unicorns.

"Harry? Hermione?" It was Molly Weasley. Shit. "Are you two down here? Draco, are H–" Molly's voice floated down the stairs and Harry quickly called back up, "Yes, Mrs Weasley." He hurried up the few steps to the opening, and Hermione dashed over to the stairs and thundered up – she wasn't letting Harry disappear without him promising not to tell. She grabbed Harry's arm and peered past him at Molly Weasley's frazzled face. "Hermione, dear," Mrs Weasley smiled in greeting, and then continued on, "Karkaroff and his escorts have arrived. Remus and Kingsley have contacted everyone available and let them know to come here for a meeting. We're just waiting on Charlie and a few Aurors, and then we'll begin. So hurry along up." She beamed down at the pair of them. "Thanks Mrs Weasley. We'll be up in just a moment," Hermione said before Harry could speak, and Molly disappeared from view as Hermione dragged Harry back down the stairs a ways.

"All right dears, don't be long."

"We won't," Hermione assured Molly and then yanked Harry close to her, pulling her wand out of her pocket and muttering, "_Muffliato_." She glared at Harry, their faces inches apart. "Don't tell, Harry. _Please_. I want to be able to tell people when it seems right. When they hate Draco a little less, or something… A few more missions – working together…they can't keep hating him when they see he's on our side." She glared even more, "_You_ can't keep hating him."

"I-I won't tell anyone, Hermione," Harry agreed, licking his lips nervously. "I'm just – it's just –"

"It's _Malfoy_?" Hermione asked dryly, quirking her mouth and Harry actually chuckled a little, casting embarrassed eyes to his feet. "Yeah." Hermione flicked her eyes down at Draco, who was pulling on a clean shirt, struggling to get his splinted arm through the sleeve and swearing to himself. Adorable. "I really do, um, love him, Harry."

"Yeah?" He shuffled on his feet, face red. Hermione nodded. "Yes. And he – he might act like the same old arrogant git in front of you, but you have to believe me when I say he _has_ changed. He…makes me happy." Hermione felt her own face redden. "Well, I guess that's what's important, right?" Harry mumbled grudgingly and Hermione grinned awkwardly at her friend, "It is. I know it's weird, Harry, me and Draco, but…it works." Harry shrugged, "If you say so, 'Mione. I still don't like it though."

"Well it's a good thing you don't _have_ to like it, then, isn't it? You just have to respect that I can make my own choices, and not try to tell me what to do." Hermione let a bit of tartness creep back into her tone and Harry shrugged again, "Yeah, I get it, Hermione. You don't have to keep thumping me over the head with it. I acted like an overbearing idiot, and I'm sorry. I'll try not to do it again – you don't have to rub it in."

"I'll bloody well 'rub it in' if I want to, Harry. After what you just pulled just now, you're lucky you're not spewing slugs everywhere!" Hermione sniped back, and then took a sharp breath, "Sorry."

"S'all right. I deserve it."

There was a long, awkward silence.

"So…meeting, huh?" Harry commented, scuffing at the dusty step with his toe.

"Yeah. That's, um, good. Making plans…putting things into motion, gaining allies. Makes me think maybe we'll see the end of this war one day, after all," Hermione muttered awkwardly, and Harry's green eyes were serious and ever so earnest on hers. "Of course you'll see the end of this war, Hermione. It won't go on forever, and you'll live for years and bloody years." Hermione wondered, sometimes. She had the feeling that it was more likely one day she'd be struck by a curse in battle, and die with her innards exploding, or her blood staining the ground around her. But she didn't say that. Just smiled half-heartedly, "Of course. Of course I will. And so will you." Draco swore furiously, a long string of expletives; the sound echoing in the cellar and Hermione glanced at him, noting with affectionate sympathy his continuing struggle with his button-down shirt. "I better go…help him." Harry's face twisted into a moue of distaste, but he just nodded jerkily. "I'll see you upstairs, then."

"All sorted with the Golden Boy?" Draco asked as Hermione's fingers nimbly threaded each button through its corresponding hole. She glanced up at him, pushed herself up on tippy-toes and kissed his full, luscious mouth. Smiled. She felt lighter now, like an actual weight had been lifted off her. Harry had found out, and it hadn't been _that_ bad. It hadn't been great by any stretch of the imagination, but in the end it hadn't been half as awful as Hermione had feared it would be. "Yes. I think so. He's not happy, but I think…I think he's accepted it. Us. He promised he wouldn't say anything, anyway." She smoothed the front of Draco's shirt absent-mindedly, and kept smiling. Happy.

"Smarmy, self-righteous prick. He doesn't have any _right_ to fucking say anything." Draco growled low in the back of his throat, annoyance and frustration. "I could've just –" Hermione frowned and Draco cut himself off. Hermione sighed, "I know. He was a complete arse. Not unlike someone else I know." She gave Draco a _look_, and a sliver of amusement tempered the annoyance in his eyes. "Who? Weasley?"

"Oh, ha, ha." Hermione looped her arms up around Draco's neck and nuzzled her face against his chest, the crisp fabric of his black shirt itching her nose. "It wouldn't have helped to try to half-murder him."

"It would have felt bloody good though. And anyway, Malfoys don't do things by halves."

"Of course you don't," Hermione smiled against his chest and breathed in the scent of him – delicious. "But it still wouldn't have helped us achieve what we want. You know, people not going into fits of rage because we're together? I don't think half – sorry, _killing_ Harry would make people approve of our relationship, somehow."

"Mm." Draco assented dutifully, and pressed his lips to the top of her head, breath hot on her scalp. They stayed wrapped together silently for a moment, contentment rolling through Hermione in lulling waves. Draco felt lean and angular against her, and his fingers trailed lazily up and down her spine. Hermione knew she had to go upstairs, but first she wanted to just enjoy _this_…

"So. You love me, then?" There was a hint of teasing amusement in Draco's voice, and Hermione blushed and kept her face buried. "Damn Harry. I didn't mean to just come out with it like that. I wanted it – I wanted the moment to be right." It sounded stupid even to her, and Draco laughed softly, fingers now combing through her wild mass of hair. "Do you really think I give a fuck about that? I don't care when you bloody say it, just that you mean it."

"I mean it." Hermione's cheeks were burning as Draco prised her face away from its hiding place in his shirt, and their eyes met. Silvery grey pierced into her, sharp and liquid at the same time. "I think – I think I love you, too." His voice was low and hesitant and unease clouded his words – but it was sincere enough to send thrills shuddering through Hermione, warm and slick. Hardly the declaration of love she wanted to hear from Draco though, nervous and unsure as it was. This was why she had wanted to wait until the moment was right – because now he felt obligated to say it back. "You – you think you do?" she asked, voice quiet. Draco dropped his eyes and his cheeks went pink as he said stiltedly, "I've, ah…never been in love before. I'm not entirely sure what it's supposed to feel like."

"Oh."

"But I…" He trailed off and his thumb drew down the side of her face, dragged along her jaw and traced the curve of her lips. He stared at her with something unnervingly close to _awe_ in his eyes. Awe and fear. "Merlin, I don't know, Granger. I'm not good at…feelings. Showing them. We didn't…do that in my family." It was a raw admission that scraped at Hermione. She couldn't imagine growing up with the cold, cruel Lucius as a father, and Narcissa who loved Draco but no doubt was restricted in how much affection she could openly show him, lest she risk Lucius' wrath. God. She felt so _sorry_ for him. But despite his assertion that his family didn't _do_ feelings, Draco's usual self-control was worn thin and Hermione could _see_ the emotions in him; he was practically radiating them. She wanted to… Make him feel better. Show him she cared. That it was okay to show his feelings. She had no idea how to do any of those things.

Hermione caught the tip of his thumb between her lips, flicking her tongue over the pad of it and then sucking it into her mouth. She watched as Draco's eyes fluttered shut and he sighed, soft and shaky. And then he took his thumb out of her mouth and replaced it with his own mouth, hand cradling the base of her skull and tongue slipping hot and thrilling over hers, his kiss gentle but insistent. Hermione melted into him, her fingers digging into Draco's hair, his splinted arm tight around the small of her back, holding her to him. It was good, melty…slow exquisite _good_. When they drew apart Draco leant his forehead against hers, his hand slipping down to cup the curvature of her neck, fingers tickling her as he stroked them over the soft skin behind her ear. "I lo–"

"You don't have to say it, Draco," Hermione interrupted. Her hands slithered up and down his upper arms, cotton rough and his skin hot through it. "It's…only words." And words were almost _everything_ to Hermione. She devoured them on the page. Words were knowledge, and power, and _truth_. She wanted so badly to hear Draco say he loved her without that crushing _I think_ in there, but… "I know how you feel. You show me it every minute I spend with you. You don't have to _say_ it, and you don't have to define it as _love_ if you're not, um, comfortable with that. That's not what's important. What we have is what we have, no matter what you say or don't say." And saying _that_ was one of the hardest things Hermione had ever done. She meant the words, but she hated saying them. No matter how true what she had just stumbled out was, Hermione still wanted to hear him say _I love you_. But she wasn't going to pressure Draco into it – she wasn't going to force him.

Draco looked immensely relieved, his eyes losing that tight, tense look as Hermione gazed into them, his forehead still tilted down onto hers so that she almost had to go cross-eyed to look into those icy grey irises. "I care about you, Hermione. I want you to be happy, even when that means not ripping Potter to shreds when he's being a self-righteous prick. I like it when you try to explain Muggle things to me. I _highly_ enjoy watching you sulk after I beat you at Risk." He smirked and she ran her fingers over his smiling mouth, and he nipped at them lightly, before going on, "And I don't even mind when you beat me at that – bloody stupid and _boring_ – Scrabble game. I could snog you all day. Fuck, I could just sit around talking –"

"Arguing," Hermione whispered with a smirk and Draco chuckled, "Debating. Debating with you all day, and I'd be perfectly happy. I don't know what that is. What it means. But I…is that…?" Those silver-grey irises were hopeful and anxious on her, and she kissed him. "That's – that's perfect." Hermione felt trembly-happy and warm inside – that was possibly the sweetest thing anyone had said to her, ever – and she wanted to stay wrapped in his arms forever. Forever and ever, where it was warm and cosy and smelt so good she could just _eat_ him. "I better go…" She extricated herself from Draco's arms reluctantly, and waved in the direction of the stairs. "Are you...?" Draco tucked an errant wave of hair behind her ear and she shivered at his touch. "Yeah, I'll come up." He looked at her so intently as he spoke, and Hermione just wanted to tear off the shirt she'd just buttoned for him and drag him back to his bed. She didn't. But she _thought_ about it as she trotted up the stairs, and a smile played at her lips as she imagined exactly how it would happen.

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_Author's Note:_ So, did Hermione react how you wanted? I know a lot of you said that you really wanted Hermione to tear Harry a new one. And I was originally going to make her try to be reasonable – so I did both :D She is both reasonable, and also furious at points. Did that satisfy you, dear readers?

I also wasn't going to write any expressions of love, but it just sort of…happened, so I left it in. It seemed fitting somehow. Do you like how Draco reacted to it? We'll see more of his reaction to their whole little love talk (a little at least) in the next chapter from his POV, btw.

Anyway I thought that except for his mother, in my head Draco hasn't ever really had real, normal affection shown to him. He's probably never allowed himself to be vulnerable enough to fall in love before now as well. And even in his relationship with his mother, in my head Lucius' presence would have made Narcissa and somewhat Draco guarded around each other, lest Lucius accuse her of coddling him, or him of being a 'mummy's boy'. YMMV of course, but that's just my take on Draco's history with his Feelings, for this fic anyway.

So he would find it hard to express himself _sincerely_ aloud. He can do it if he's disguising it (or softening it) slightly with that biting, dry humour of his, but just being flat out, 'I love you' I think would be very hard for him to do. So he does the next best thing, and just tries to tell Hermione what about their relationship makes him feel whatever it is he feels. And she wants more (of course, who wouldn't?) but she also understands, and can see how he feels. So it's enough for her.

Also, did anyone catch the Whedon reference – well, technically the _Spike_ reference – something Draco says. I will award One Shiny Internet to the person who can tell me which line it is :)

I also like having ongoing things. The board games I do so love to reference are an example of that. I think it gives the fic a sense of continuity and solidity – not that I'm particularly trying to flesh out 'the world' of the fic – this story is long enough just focusing on the romance and a bit of fighting!

Anyway, please, please, tell me what you thought!

Coming up in the next few chapters (probably): a big meeting that we don't actually see much of because it's booooring, Krum comes onto the scene and throws longing looks at Hermione, Draco talks with his mummy (thanks to reader requests – I had just shoved Narcissa offstage indefinitely, but it _does_ seem about time for Draco to talk to someone about how he's changed, what's going on with Hermione, and about his father, and his mother of course is perfect for that), they all go off on a coupla missions, Ginny plays matchmaker, Krum ropes Harry, Ron and Draco into having awkward man-time drinking together, and Hermione has her own girl talk! And sexytimes are had. Of course. Totally gratuitous, and you love it, don't you?

And then shortly after that, it's gonna get real fucking dark up in here, folks. Fair warning – a storm's a'coming.


	24. See You This Way

_Author's Notes:_ Wonderful reviewers thank you so much for all your comments, and I'm sorry if I haven't PM'ed you to thank you properly yet! Life is still crazy busy – I've finished packing, almost, but we still have to actually move. Ugh.

I do have a request to make of all you lovely lurkers, though… ::hopeful face:: I want to get past the 200 review mark this chapter – hopefully more? If each of you wonderful readers left just one teeny weeny small comment this chapter…well, I'd crack a bloody thousand at least! It only takes a moment to leave a short line that you're enjoying the story – if indeed, you _are_ enjoying it. So please think about doing that :)

The title is from "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men.

Reviewers wanted some Narcissa, and you're getting her! Tonks is smart, Hermione gets hit on, Draco is conflicted in many, many ways, and awkwardness is _awkward_! Please forgive my terrible typos; I'm operating off three hours sleep here. ::headdesk::

_Enjoy!_

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_**See You This Way**_

Draco stared at the back of Hermione's head as he followed her up the cellar steps and smiled to himself. He felt fucking incredible. She'd said that she loved him. She had said it in front of _Potter_. Draco didn't even care that Potter hadn't been justifiably hexed or otherwise injured – Hermione loved him, and she had told him so. It was the strangest feeling in the world. But Draco liked it, even if the sheer amount of happiness he was feeling made him worry that something terrible was going to happen just to balance things back out. The universe didn't seem to like seeing Draco happy, if the last few years of his life were any indication. But Hermione loved him, and that was _good_, and he told himself he should stop questioning things, and being such a fucking pessimist. But it was ingrained in his nature. Draco couldn't just enjoy the moment; he was always analysing the past, assessing the present, plotting for the future.

Draco wished now that he had said it back, without the _I think_, but he just hadn't been able to bring himself to come out with it. The words had stuck in his throat, and when he'd finally forced them out, that caveat had been thrust in there. He _thought_ he loved her. How very fucking romantic of him. In all fairness, Draco had never been in love before, so he _wasn't _sure it was really love, but…he was sure enough that he could have said it. He could have given Hermione what she wanted instead of that paltry second best phrase. But something had stopped him from saying _I love you_. Fear of rejection, even though he knew that was irrational. Fear of his words being used against him somehow. Sheer fucking awkwardness.

The only person Draco had ever actually said aloud that he loved was his mother – Draco had never even told Lucius he loved him. Maybe as a small child he had, Draco supposed, but not that he had any memory of. He wasn't even sure if he _had_ ever loved his father. Maybe. But not real love, but the sort of love that was just because he was Draco's _father_ and you were _supposed_ to love your father. But not anymore.

Lucius had never been the type of father who invited shows of emotion. He hadn't liked Draco showing weakness. He had told Draco to never be vulnerable; never leave himself open to attack by people who might want to use Draco's weaknesses against him. But how was loving Hermione a weakness? If anything, it made him stronger. It was a fucking cliché, but loving her gave him strength – to do the right thing, to be a better person. Draco snorted quietly. Maybe Dumbledore had been right about love, and hope, and strength in togetherness, and all the other bloody heart-warming sayings he had trotted out on every possible occasion. Hermione glanced over her shoulder at him, smiling slightly, her brown eyes lit up with a warm amber glow as the light caught them. She was gorgeous, and good, and she wanted _him_. Draco Malfoy.

It was like a stamp of approval. If Hermione bloody Granger loved him, he couldn't be that bad, could he? Because there was no way Gryffindor's golden girl – the brightest witch of her age – would take up with scum. It made Draco feel better about himself, knowing that Hermione saw something in him that made him worthy. She didn't care that he was of the noble house of Malfoy, didn't care about the vault full of galleons he was going to inherit – she loved him for him.

Draco was grinning widely as he followed her into the lounge, and Thomas and Finnegan, who loitered by the doorway, noticed and both stared suspiciously at him. Draco gave even less of a fuck what they thought than usual. No one but Potter and Hermione had any idea what Draco was smirking about, and his smile made Hermione pleased and Potter pissed off, so it was win-win. And then he saw Nymphadora across the room with Lupin, and the two were looking at him and Hermione and whispering to each other. Nymphadora's face was smug and knowing – Lupin's a little disbelieving.

Draco wiped the smile off his face instantly, adopting a haughty expression that as a child he had practiced in front of the mirror, until he had it perfected. Just the right amount of unapproachable snootiness, without being outright objectionably contemptuous.

The lounge was crammed full of people, the air stifling and warm. Typical. Apparently no one had thought of a cooling charm – and then just as he thought that, someone must have cast one because the temperature noticeably went down, and the air freshened. Draco looked around; the permanent residents of the Godric's Hollow house were present, as were a few of the Order members that had been based in the Room of Requirement, a ragged bunch of Aurors, some adult witches and wizards Draco didn't know, or recognised vaguely as being Ministry workers, parents of Hogwarts students, or blood traitors, and Karkaroff and his escort. Karkaroff stood in a corner talking to Shacklebolt, and his escort were clumped nearby – five young men a year or so older than Draco, all with the stolid, dour expressions that seemed to come naturally to Durmstrang students.

Draco found himself glad that his father hadn't sent him there after all as he sidled over to a wall and put his back to it, slouching and glaring at the room through his hair, which despite Hermione trimming it was still long enough to hang over his eyes. He had come to like it that way, hiding behind his hair. Karkaroff's escort were typical big oafs who looked thick as two planks, and sullen with it – Draco didn't imagine he would have fit in there, somehow.

And then he heard a familiar happy gasp over the noisy chatter filling the room, and saw Hermione hurrying across the lounge to the group of Durmstrang students. Draco remembered suddenly that Hermione had gone to the Yule ball with one of them. Viktor Krum, the Seeker for the Bulgarian National Quidditch team He felt a rush of jealousy flood his veins as Hermione stopped in front of Krum and smiled up at him, the Seeker smiling back faintly. "I have missed your owls, Hermione," Draco heard Krum say over the background noise. He had to strain to hear Hermione's reply, "Viktor. It's good to see you again. The war hasn't left me much time for correspondence, I'm afraid."

"Of course. I understand this," Krum rumbled.

"And I hear you have been in hiding with Karkaroff the past several months, haven't you? So I wouldn't have been able to owl you anyway," Hermione continued and Draco's scowl deepened at the easy familiarity between the two. Krum dipped his head in assent. "I have been protecting him, yes." There was a brief pause, and then Krum said, "I see the Weasley boy you danced with at the wedding the last time I saw you is with another girl, hm?" Hermione looked startled and blushed a little, and Draco's hand clenched into a fist. He inconspicuously edged a little closer to the two, as Hermione answered, "Ah. Yes. Ron…Ron and Cho – Do you know Cho Chang? She recently lost her leg during a duel on a mission. But she's recovering well…"

Hermione looked hugely uncomfortable with Krum's line of questioning and was obviously trying to change the subject. But Krum did _not_ know Chang, and didn't seem to be interested in letting Hermione steer the conversation towards the Ravenclaw. In his gruff, monosyllabic way, he seemed to be trying to ascertain Hermione's availability. Draco fumed silently as Krum asked, "And you? I see you arrived with, ah, the younger Malfoy, yes? We heard of his defection, in Bulgaria. You two are…?" Hermione shook her head vigorously, cheeks burning with two red spots. "No, no…I, um…" She stammered and stumbled over her words as she and Krum kept talking, dodging his questions as best she could, and glancing around the room as if looking for an escape. Draco had to stop himself from stalking over to Hermione and that entitled bastard, Krum, and making it very bloody clear that she was taken.

It had never actually bothered Draco before that their relationship was secret. It had only been a couple of weeks since it had become something to actively hide, and Draco hadn't particularly wanted to advertise it, seeing as he preferred to stay hex-free. But suddenly he _hated_ that they weren't open with their relationship. He _loathed_ it. He stood there helplessly with his cheeks hot and stomach nauseous, nails digging into his palm, and wished that Hermione could just say, _I'm with Draco_. It would be worth having to suffer Weasley's inevitable ire. But Draco knew Hermione wasn't ready to tell everyone yet, and Draco wasn't going to expose what they had before Hermione was ready to; she didn't need the stress it would cause. Draco tried to ignore her and Krum, and pretend what everyone else believed – that he didn't care that Krum was drooling all over Hermione. He didn't succeed very well.

The gathered witches and wizards showed no sign of wanting to file through to the dining room for the meeting yet, and Draco leaned against the wall and waited. And waited. The lounge was a hubbub of noise; old friends who had been apart for weeks or even months greeted each other excitedly, and eager gossip clogged the air, hugs and enthusiastic handshakes, and the occasional tearful commiserations on lost comrades. Draco stood alone in it all, a scowl on his face as around him people hugged and laughed and shared stories. Hermione had escaped from Krum at last, and was talking to Chang, but the Durmstrang graduate was still staring at her from beneath beetling brows. Draco resolved to snog Hermione fucking senseless after this damned meeting was over. Draco watched Krum watch Hermione – who was talking animatedly with Chang – and a large part of him just wanted to stalk back to the cellar and sulk.

"Draco!"

He looked up and saw his cousin lumbering toward him, preceded by her frighteningly enormous belly. He frowned but greeted her stiffly as she drew nearer. "Cousin."

Nymphadora snorted, "Merlin's sake, Draco. You _can_ call me by my name, you know." Draco eyed her cautiously, wondering why she was talking to him at all. "Nymphadora, then. What do you want?" It came out sharper and more sneering than he meant it to be; Hermione wanted people to like him. He was supposed to be nice – but it was fucking difficult to be nice when he had no reason to be. He half expected Nymphadora to recoil and storm off at his harsh tone, but instead she remained unmoved, face set into patient amiability. "Tonks," she said. Draco looked at her questioningly, waiting for her to explain. "Call me Tonks," she elaborated, "I hate Nymphadora."

Draco eyed her. Just over eight months pregnant according to Hermione, she was huge; her hair the bubblegum pink she favoured, and her nose a little more snub than usual, a wry smile playing at her lips. "Fine. Tonks. What are you doing talking to the Death Eater?" He moderated his tone and tried to keep the snark out of it, and Nymphadora shrugged. "Why not?" It was a stupid answer that told him nothing and only annoyed him, and Draco sneered at her on reflex. "You haven't before now. I've been here over two months, and you haven't spoken to me once." It annoyed him that she was being friendly, now, after so long spent ignoring his existence.

"I didn't trust you before," she said, honestly at least – but then what else would you expect from a Hufflepuff? "Remus told me how well you did on the mission, and how hard you fought; he was…impressed by you." Draco smiled coldly. "I find myself not particularly caring what husband thinks. Surprising, I know."

Did she think he would be flattered that Remus Lupin deigned to approve of his performance on the mission? It grated on him. It was strange; a large part of the reason why Draco had even thought of retrieving Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem was to improve his standing with the Order members – but now that he apparently had gained some small approval, it irritated him. It highlighted the fact that nobody had thought to trust his word, or give him a chance, except Hermione. And even then, he had to admit trusting him hadn't come easily to her.

Perhaps he was expecting too much from them all – why _would_ they have trusted his word? Had he ever given them a reason to? Even as Draco told himself to cut them some slack and just enjoy the fact that somebody was talking civilly to him, Nymphadora said, "You know, Draco, people might find it easier to give you a chance if you weren't always such a git." She said it without annoyance, and gave him a look that seemed both oddly affectionate and exasperated.

He ran his hand through his hair and tried a smile, the expression feeling foreign on his face when it wasn't aimed at Hermione. "I apologise for my rudeness. I'm not used to people being friendly," he apologised stiltedly and Nymphadora blinked at him, startled. "No. Of course not. I'm afraid in light of the events of last night…well, we've all been a bit awful to you." Draco cocked an eyebrow, disbelief clear. _A bit awful?_ That was putting it lightly. Shutting him in a cellar with only a fucking bucket for a loo for several very long days was not what Draco would classify as _a bit_ awful. "You could say that," he allowed stiffly. Merlin, this was awkward.

He stared over Nymphadora's shoulder at Hermione, who was still talking to a fascinated Chang, and gesturing enthusiastically at her amputated leg. She looked like she was in lecture-mode; brushing her hair impatiently off her face, lips moving quickly, her whole face animated as she spoke. "So when's this meeting starting?" Draco asked Nymphadora absently, eyes not moving from Hermione, who was making some strange sort of gesture obviously meant to aid her in explaining something to Chang.

"Once everyone's settled down a bit." Nymphadora said, and Draco nodded slightly, eyes still drinking in Hermione. "There's no real hurry now that everyone is here. Unless, _of course_, you just can't wait to drag Hermione back down to the cellar for the rest of the afternoon." Draco nodded again on reflex, admiring the way Hermione's shirt snugged tight over her breasts when she gestured like that. "Mm," he said without thinking, and then his eyes widened and he stared at Nymphadora wildly. "What? I mean… What? I ah, didn't hear that. What you said… What did you say, Tonks?"

Nymphadora grinned, "Too busy ogling Hermione, were you?" Draco shushed her vehemently, "Keep your fucking voice down." There was no point in denying it now.

"I'm just letting you know, you aren't being as discreet as you might think. I'm surprised no one else noticed you glowering at Krum while they were talking."

"Please, Tonks," Stupid fucking name. Nymphadora was far prettier. "Please, I'm asking you not to tell anyone else. Hermione would be devastated if people found out before she was ready to tell them." Draco stared pleadingly at his cousin, and her hair altered as he watched, turning an almost florescent orange. She looked at him like she was trying to see inside his head, and he stared back unblinkingly.

"I won't _tell_. It's none of my business what Hermione gets up to – she's of age. Before yesterday I must admit I thought she was bound to end up with a broken heart, but today I'm not so sure." She held that assessing look on Draco, "I always thought you were the image of your father, in personality as well as looks. But maybe you're not, after all. Maybe you really have changed." Nymphadora smiled at him and Draco shifted uncomfortably, feeling unaccountably defensive. He didn't like people judging him, he decided, not even when they were judging him worthy – or worthy enough not to _hate_, at least.

"I'm still a Malfoy." Draco didn't know why he said it. He just did. He felt off-balance. Like the world was tipped at an angle, and everything looked out of kilter. What the hell was Nymphadora trying to achieve with this little conversation? Why now? Was it really just because of the mission? "Ah, but you're half Black, cousin," she pointed out, and Draco huffed derisively. "Yes, and Bellatrix is such a good example of shining goodness."

"My mother, Regulus, Sirius, and myself are just a few examples of people from the Black line who aren't _evil_, Draco. Just because you're a Malfoy, doesn't mean you're doomed to be evil."

"And I realise that. Obviously. Or I wouldn't be here, would I?" Draco was snippy. He just wanted her to bugger off. He didn't want to have a meaningful heart-to-heart with this woman he didn't know just because, what? Because she was _family_? "You can save the motivational lectures for someone who gives a fuck. I appreciate that you no longer despise me, and can apparently be big-hearted enough to be civil…but I neither want nor need to have _conversation_ with you." He glared at Nymphadora and she just stared at him, unmoved. Pressed the heels of her hands into the small of her back and arched it, stretched with a small sound of relief.

Draco was dragged out of his irritated thoughts as he saw a lump ripple over her bump, and then the whole thing _shifted_ so it bulged more on the left than the right. "Merlin. That's horrifying," he said without thinking, eyes glued to her bump, and Nymphadora laughed and rubbed the huge swell of abdomen. "It's not that bad. Feels a bit funny, though, I must admit. I quite like it." Draco shuddered, observing without thinking, "Pregnancy looks very uncomfortable."

"Oh, it is, rather. But parts of it are nice." Nymphadora answered amiably, and there was a small pause in which Draco thought, _am I having small talk? With Nymphadora? How the fuck did that happen? _His brain stuttered and went blank, and he stared at Nymphadora wordlessly, face set in an odd half-frown.

"I understand you feel defensive, Draco. But we _are_ blood, and that does mean something to me. And after last night, well, I think we can trust you're not still secretly loyal to Voldemort. So if you ever want a, ah, friend, or someone to talk to…" Nymphadora began with kindness that made Draco cringe, but was thankfully interrupted by Mr Weasley, who appeared in the doorway and loudly called everyone through to the dining room. "We better…" He waved in the direction of the dining room, and Nymphadora smiled and clapped him on the shoulder, "Just remember what I said?"

"Yeah. Sure. I will. Thanks," Draco managed to get the words out with awkward stiffness, and then pushed his way hurriedly into the crush of people streaming out of the lounge. He supposed Hermione would be overjoyed that Nymphadora had spoken to him and been so friendly. But Draco didn't know what the hell to do with that friendliness. It just made him feel incredibly fucking uncomfortable. It had been what they wanted, for people to tolerate him. And now that one of them had, Draco wanted to avoid her like the bloody plague. It seemed wholly unnatural, to have an Order member treat him like he was a human being. Apart from Hermione, Mrs Weasley, and Lovegood, everyone had treated him like a dog that had bitten but couldn't be put down; you had to remember to feed it, but that was about all.

He sat down at the long table, finding a seat squashed uncomfortably between Longbottom and Professor Trelawney, who kept glaring at him most unnervingly with those bulging eyes. Merlin only knew why the crazy old bat was even needed here; she wasn't an active member of the Order. Looking around the crowded table, Draco realised for the first time how truly pitiful the numbers on this side of the war were. To be fair, most of the soldiers weren't present – only the more important members able to attend – but even so the Order seemed insignificant in comparison to the number of allies and followers the Dark Lord had collected over the past year.

There were the original surviving Order members; a handful of Professors – most had elected to stay on at Hogwarts to try to protect the remaining students – a few ex-Ministry workers and other adult civilians; and about half a dozen Aurors. And Draco knew there were only another half dozen Aurors out in the field – Voldemort had decimated their ranks when he'd taken over the Ministry.

On top of the British members present, there were Karkaroff and his escort, representing maybe several dozen more that were willing to fight for the Order, but weren't here today, a handful of healers from South America, and a couple of witches from the African continent. It said something about the bravery of the magical community's adult witches and wizards that the majority of the Order's numbers were comprised of Hogwarts' students and graduates, all within a few years of Draco's age – the core of which were old D.A. members.

He wondered how in the hell the Order hoped to win this war. Draco didn't particularly want to die. He _had_ planned when he first fled to the Order with his mother, to pull a runner if the Order began to falter. But now, with Hermione…that plan was right out. She would never willingly abandon her friends, and Draco didn't think he could force her to – even if he _could_, she would never forgive him.

Draco's eyes scanned the people crammed around the long table; if they didn't achieve the impossible, then these were the fuckers he'd be dying alongside. Nymphadora smile brightly at Draco as his eyes passed over her, and he twitched a confused half-smile back. Trying to be nice. Nice did not come naturally or easily to Draco, but he could try for Hermione's sake.

_She_ sat next to Weasley, rolling her eyes at something he'd said as she unrolled a scroll one of the Aurors had shoved across to her. She was oblivious to Draco's gaze, but Weasley looked up and stared directly ar Draco. He expected a sneer or contemptuous dismissal after their…disagreement…last night, but instead Weasley just lifted his glass of firewhiskey and nodded at Draco in neutral acknowledgement. Draco nodded back numbly, feeling dazed, and then Chang tugged on Weasley's arm and he turned to her with a sickeningly sappy look on his face. Draco blinked and furrowed his brow. If he had to die – or more hopefully, _live_ – alongside anyone, perhaps these people wouldn't be _so_ bad.

Draco thought of a line from one of Hermione's Muggle books, about believing six impossible things before breakfast. All right, so technically it was noon, but Draco still hadn't had breakfast yet… And so far, Potter _hadn't_ hexed him for being plastered to a flushed, moaning Hermione, Hermione had told Draco she loved him, Nymphadora had tried to befriend him, and Weasley had foregone an opportunity to communicate his dislike in favour of being _civil_. Draco only needed two more impossible occurrences, and he'd have his tally of six. He wondered idly if perhaps Trelawney might suddenly spout a prophecy about Draco being the future crusader for House Elves, or the like. Although now that Draco thought about it, being that he was with Hermione that future might not be so unlikely. Perish the bloody thought. He had his limits, and one of them was fighting for House Elf rights.

"Draco Malfoy?" A husky woman's voice said an inch from Draco's ear, and Draco swore and jumped in his seat, jostling Longbottom who slid a nervous look Draco's way. Draco sneered at Longbottom out of habit and then remembered he was supposed to be capitalising on his newfound popularity, such as it was. He mumbled, "Sorry," throwing poor Longbottom into a state of utter bafflement. "Malfoy?" that throaty female voice asked again impatiently, and a large hand clamped down on his shoulder. "What?" Draco snapped, shrugging the hand off and trying to wriggle free of his chair and stumble to his feet – knocking his stump in the process and sending a bone-deep ache through it. _Shit_.

"Delia Tiptree. Auror." The auburn-haired woman who faced Draco in ragged Aurors' clothes nearly rivalled Draco's height and was solid with it – and with the most magnificent rack Draco had ever seen. "A pleasure, I'm sure," Draco greeted her shortly. Shit she was an impressive woman – pouting lips and big doe-eyes, and legs, which at her height, couldn't help but go on for miles. Draco couldn't _stop_ himself from noticing Tiptree's rather abundant assets, but he forced his eyes to her tired red-brown ones. There was no need to be a lewd bastard, even if it was harmless.

"Your mother wants to see you, Malfoy," she said bluntly – obviously a woman of few words. "My – my mother?" Tiptree nodded silently. "And I'm _allowed_ to go and see her?" The tall Auror nodded again. "I've been authorised to side-along apparate you to her location."

"Now?" He had wanted to stay for the meeting. "Yes," she answered abruptly, "If you want to see her, that is."

"_Yes._" Draco didn't hesitate for a second. Things had been left…badly…between him and his mother, and Salazar only knew when he would get a chance to see her again. If things went the way Draco thought was most likely, he might _never_ get a chance to see her again before some bloody Death Eater murdered him on some bloody pointless mission. Draco was scared as shit of seeing his mother again, he had no idea what to say to her…but he couldn't pass up the opportunity. Hermione would just have to fill him in on the meeting later.

# # #

Hermione skimmed the letter from Parvati – she could read it more thoroughly later. They had never been close friends, but war had the effect of bringing people together. Parvati had been stationed in Cornwall since Hogwarts had been taken, and not long after Hermione had settled in at Godric's Hollow, Parvati had started writing to her. She had been briefly captured and tortured by a group of Snatchers, and she had been one person Hermione had felt she could confide some of her feelings to, after her torture by Bellatrix. It was good to hear from her – it had been a few weeks. Hermione wondered whether she should tell Parvati about Draco…the other girl had never exactly been known for he skill at keeping secrets, but she had changed a lot since their time at school.

The sound of grating chair legs over the constant thrum of noise caught Hermione's attention and she looked toward the disturbance, rolling the scroll absently up again. Draco was getting to his feet, an Auror looming behind him. He appeared to apologise to Neville – if that was what Draco said; Hermione wasn't a lip-reader, and Draco could have just as easily been saying _fuck you, Longbottom_. Hermione fervently hoped not. The general view on Draco today, from what she had picked up in overheard snatches of conversation, seemed to be that perhaps Draco wasn't all that bad. Hermione didn't want him ruining that with his usual defensive act of abrasive arrogance.

She watched keenly as he spoke briefly to the tall woman, and then without even a glance back at Hermione, followed the Auror from the room. Hermione frowned. Where was Draco going? What was happening? She tried to unobtrusively crane her neck to see into the foyer, but could only see part of Draco's shoulder, and then that too spun out of view as Hermione heard the distinctive _pop_ that heralded apparition. What on earth was going on? Anxiety twisted in Hermione's stomach, and she elbowed Ron in the side. "Ouch! Huh?" he grunted rudely, tearing his attention away from Cho for a moment. God, it was so unsettling seeing the two of them making puppy-eyes at each other. "Do you know where that Auror was taking Draco?"

"Hm? No, I haven't heard anything about Malfoy going anywhere," Ron answered disinterestedly and turned straight back to Cho, snuggling her and talking in low tones. That boy had a one-track mind – he and Cho were worse than Harry and Ginny, and that was saying something. Hermione frowned, twisting Parvati's letter in her hands as she worried. She didn't bloody like not knowing things! And she couldn't make a point of asking people if they knew what was going on – she didn't want to arouse suspicion. She wondered if Harry might know – she could always ask him after the meeting. Unless…he didn't have something to do with it, did he? Hermione rolled and unrolled Parvati's scroll nervously, the feel of the thick parchment somehow comforting to her.

Then a little charmed paper dart soared down in front of Hermione, and settled gently on the scarred wooden tabletop. She looked around in confusion – was it for her? Was it some prank of Fred and George's? Tonks raised an eyebrow at Hermione from down the end of the table, and nodded at the dart, and Hermione took it up, unfolding the sharply creased rectangle of parchment. It appeared blank, but when Hermione took out her wand and tapped the paper, discreetly murmuring, "_Aparecium_," words appeared on the parchment. Crowding the piece of paper in Tonks' messy, rounded handwriting, it read:

"I arranged for Draco to go visit Aunt Narcissa.

After his performance on the mission

the Order's official consensus is that he can be trusted.

He's still an arrogant bloody toff, though.

I don't know what you see in him."

Hermione's breath froze in her chest as she read the last sentence, and her eyes flew to Tonks', full of fear. Tonks just nodded at the rectangle of parchment again and smiled reassuringly, waggling her hand. Hermione frowned but flipped the creased paper over and saw at the top of the parchment was scrawled:

(Don't worry. Harry didn't tell me.

I figured it out on my own.

It was rather obvious, to be honest,

You two might want to be more _careful_)

Hermione winced, relieved and embarrassed, and not a little concerned. How on earth did Tonks know that Harry knew? Did she just know bloody everything that went on in this house? Hermione was glad Harry had kept his word, but if Tonks could figure it out, well…eventually other people would start putting two and two together as well. Maybe that was the best way to do it, actually. Stop hiding it quite so much, and let people realise slowly in their own time – that might possibly be less dramatic than an official announcement. Maybe. She could ask Draco what he thought later.

Hermione silently used a banishing charm on tonks' message and smiled nervously at the pregnant Auror. Her head was swimming with thoughts, the foremost being; _Draco is going to see his mother? _She was pleased for him, but concerned it might not go well, and maybe just the tiniest bit worried that Narcissa might still hold a great deal of sway over Draco. What if she went on about family loyalty and blood purity at him, and convinced him…? Guilted him…? Persuaded him…? God, Hermione's mind ran riot with all the havoc Narcissa could possibly wreak. Draco never talked about his mother, but Hermione could tell just how much he loved her – deeply. More than he loved Hermione even, maybe. Which was only normal, Hermione assumed, but…she felt jealous of bloody Narcissa Malfoy. God.

Kingsley called for order then, voice booming and jolting her out of her worry. Hermione straightened in her chair and let out a quiet sigh; all she could do was trust Draco. And she did, right? She trusted him with her life. Draco loved her; Hermione _knew_ it, even if he couldn't say it. Hermione had seen him watching her from the corner of her eye when Viktor had cornered her into that awkward conversation. Draco looked utterly gorgeous when he was glowering – blonde hair in his angry grey eyes and that kissable mouth all twisted into a strangely appealing sneer.

Hermione had wanted to go over to him, wrap her arms around him and kiss that mouth. Wrap herself up against him with everyone watching and press her lips to his, feel his tongue moving quick and light as it flicked over hers, sending sparks into her core; making her knees trembly and her stomach quiver.

Hermione had watched him watching her as she tried to put Viktor off politely, without any real reason to get rid of him – wishing she could say she was with Draco and be done with it. But she couldn't, and so she dodged Viktor's probing questions and her eyes were glued not to Viktor's dark, handsome looks, but to Draco; pale and thin in comparison to Viktor. Hermione didn't think she would ever get sick of looking at him. His broad lean shoulders; that sharp chin that suited him so well; the elegant, strong fingers on his hand, and it made her chest ache to look where the other hand should have been; and those knife-sharp grey eyes, like steel and ice.

God, she loved him so much it almost frightened her. She thought of losing him somehow, and her stomach lurched and her throat closed up. He had become an intrinsic part of her life so fucking _quickly_, as much a part of her as Harry and Ron were. It still shocked Hermione; when she thought about it, she realised how surreal it was that she felt this way about _Draco_.

"…Gringotts. That's where the last Horcrux is, apart from the snake, Nagini, and we need to get to it, if we want to be able to make any progress toward victory. At this point we don't know…"

Hermione tried to focus on the meeting, but thoughts of Draco kept shoving their way into her head and pushing out all sensible thought. She fiddled with the seal on Parvati's scroll and hoped everything worked out all right with Narcissa…

# # #

Draco swallowed down the faint nausea of disorientation as he and Delia Tiptree popped into existence on a cobbled path lined with rose bushes, a blue door set in the stone wall of a house just a few feet in front of him. "Where are we?" He ran a hand through his hair and swallowed on that sick feeling apparition caused. "A house," Tiptree replied supremely unhelpfully, and Draco exhaled sharply through his nose and counted to ten before speaking. His nervousness was making his temper short. "I can see that. A house _where_, exactly?"

"Britain."

"Well _thank you_, that clears it _right_ up."

"It's imperative that this house is kept top secret, and knowledge of its location is on a need to know basis." Tiptree frowned at him, and Draco heaved a sigh, "Let me guess, I don't need to know?" Tiptree nodded with the faintest hint of what _might_ have been a smile. "You don't need to know," she repeated in a bored monotone, and Draco nodded. Of course. His stomach was in fucking _knots_, and he stared at the sky-blue door like it was his doom. He didn't bother snarking at Tiptree – not only did he think it wouldn't be healthy for him to push the woman on the topic, but he sincerely doubted the stolid woman would give out any more information than the bare minimum she already had.

He stared at the cheerfully painted door. What would he say to his mother? How did he even feel about her, after everything that had happened? He had changed so much since the last time they had seen each other. No longer a blood purist – not even a little. And as much as Draco loved his mother, he resented her for so fucking much now. The resent coiled in twisty feelings that tainted the good things. He resented the way she and his father had raised him. The way she hadn't protected him. The way she had just let his father take his fucking hand. Fuck. _Fuck_. The memory of that night erupted and made Draco feel sick and weak – he swayed on his feet, dizzy and pale, trying not to retch.

"Malfoy? You going in or what?" Tiptree prodded and Draco shook his head blindly. "Just fucking _give_ me a minute." His voice sounded funny to his own ears, and he tried to breathe deep and slow and calm his quick-thudding heart. Draco's mother still loved his father, even after all he had done; Draco knew that. Was that normal, or did it prove she didn't really love Draco? Or that there was something _wrong_ with his mother, to love Lucius still? Draco didn't know and he really wished he had someone to talk to – not Hermione, but someone who could give him some fucking _answers_. Tell him what it all meant. Tell him what to do, what to say. How to feel.

"Hurry up. I'm not lollygagging out here all day," Tiptree said and Draco rolled his eyes and swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Just fucking wait, all right?" His nerves felt raw and open, his skin chilled and clammy.

It would be fine. It was his mother. She might not understand everything, she might be horribly wrong on some points, but she was still his mother, and she loved him. "Go on, for Merlin's sake, boy!" Tiptree prodded Draco in the back with her wand tip and he jerked and shot her a ferocious glare. But she was right; there was no point in loitering around outside like a bloody coward. Draco stepped forward and grasped the door handle; turned it. He stepped inside, into a large, comfortable kitchen with the delicious smell of meaty, rich food filling the sun-warmed room. The kitchen itself was empty of people, and a huge, bubbling pot on the stove had a large spoon stirring around the contents and around of its own accord. He looked around, and glanced over his shoulder at Tiptree, who was latching the door behind them.

"Where's my mother, then?" he asked and Tiptree just gestured for him to follow her, and led the way through a door at the end of the kitchen, into a large hallway. They passed several doors, booted feet quiet on the worn green carpet, before Tiptree came to a stop in front of a set of double doors. "In here?" Draco asked and Tiptree nodded. Draco pushed the doors open quietly, and stepped into a big room with paisley carpet and floor to ceiling bookshelves lining the walls. A grand piano sat near the windows, and there were several comfortable armchairs and couches settled about, and standing in front of one sofa with her back to him was a slim blonde woman in an ice blue dress; much plainer than her normal wear, and possibly a Muggle design…but Draco recognised his mother when he saw her.

Draco bit his lip and watched silently as she firmly chastised a small boy of five or six, with short light brown hair and pale skin. He stood forlornly in front of her; head bowed and eyes peering up at Narcissa. The boy's toes scuffed at the carpet and his hands were shoved deep in his pockets, a guilty expression on his small face. He looked exactly the same as Draco always used to when his mother scolded _him_. Draco watched, jaw agape, as his mother continued her lecture firmly, "I have told you far too many times already, Arthur! Food is for eating, not for vandalising your room! I am sick to death of _scourgifying _your bedroom walls, and we frankly cannot afford to have you wasting entire bottles of tomato sauce, mustard and anything else you can get your hands on!"

"I know – 'm sorry," the little boy mumbled contritely, and Draco's mother sighed exasperatedly, turning a little and swaying side to side as she did. Draco stared, eyes widening as he saw the small bundle cradled in his mother's arms. A baby? What…? "Mother?" he asked, voice cracking. Draco didn't understand. What was his mother doing with a baby and a small child? Rocking one and scolding the other, like they were her own children. What. The. Fuck. His brain reeled. His mother spun to face him as he spoke, happy shock printed all over her face. "Draco?" The baby started crying, a thin wail, and Narcissa jogged it in her arms, her attention immediately flying from Draco to the infant and he felt a stupid rush of jealousy. "I –" He didn't know what to say, his mind completely blank.

"Here, Narcissa. I'll take Margrethe." Delia Tiptree strode forward, pushing past Draco, and took the bundled up still wailing baby from his mother's arms. "Come along, Arthur." Tiptree ordered the little boy firmly, and he fell in at Tiptree's side obediently, trotting past Draco and giving him a curious look.

"Mother…?" Draco said again, and she picked up her skirts and half-ran to Draco – hugged him tightly and he stood stiffly in her embrace, unsure of what to do. She let him go and peered up at him. "Are you well? Draco, what _happened_ to you?" He realised he was still covered in faint bruises from the mission, and his arm was still splinted. He could have just said he had gone out on a mission, but instead what came out of Draco's mouth was, "Your _husband_ used the _Cruciatus_ on me." Narcissa's hand covered her mouth and her eyes wavered with tears, and Draco found himself staring coldly down at her, trying not to let her tears make _him_ fucking emotional.

Draco found himself thinking of Hermione. Of her warm, firewhiskey brown eyes, and determined jaw, and that know-it-all expression – of the ink stains on her fingers, and the faint furrow between her eyebrows from squinting at nearly illegible ancient texts.

"Oh," Narcissa said, and stepped back from Draco, looking up at him nervously, her eyes overflowing with love and worry. "I – I'm sorry. I… Do – do you want to sit down and talk?" Draco made himself smile at his mother, but it felt unnatural on his face. "That's why I came here, mother. To see you." He suddenly wished he hadn't. Who was this woman who was firm and kind with two strange children? This woman who smiled warmly at the impassive Tiptree, who seemed serene and happy and somehow _stronger_ – where the fuck had she been when her husband had been cutting off Draco's fucking hand?

"I'm glad you came, Draco. I've missed you. I've been so _worried_ about you. No one would tell me very much, and I didn't know…" Narcissa looked down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. "Well, you _are_ all right. And I'm so glad you're here."

Draco nodded, closing his eyes and breathing deep and slow, and trying to think of Hermione, not the way his mother had just _stood_ there silently as Lucius had sliced through Draco's flesh and hacked through his bones, with the cursed silver blade. Remembering Hermione's hands greedy and eager on his face and shoulders and chest and her lips dotting soft kisses on his jaw, instead of the way he had screamed and _screamed_ as his hand had been _cut _and _hacked_ from him, while his mother had just stood there pale and frightened and not doing a fucking thing.

"Yes… Yes," Draco said numbly, staring at his mother's two whole hands, and the bit of baby drool on the shoulder of her dress. Flinching from the depth of love and concern for him in her eyes. It had never helped him, that love. He didn't know what to do with it.

He wished he'd never come here.

# # #

_Super-long Caffeine Fuelled Author's Note: _So, what did you think?! Please leave me a little comment letting me know your opinion, and I will give you my first-born! Please – someone take him! He's driving me up the wall! :p

Also – don't worry, I'm not writing Narcissa as a bad mother in this story. Rest assured, she loves Draco very much – but she's not perfect, she loves Lucius too, and she was in a very bad situation. Draco of course, not being objective, finds it difficult to see the situation from her perspective.

But next chapter we'll get a lot more Narcissa and Draco, and hopefully progress toward repairing their relationship will be made, Hermione will be talked of, and Arthur and Margrethe explained! Also, girl talk! Sexytimes which were meant to be in this chapter but it got too long so that'll have to go in next chapter (sorry)! Lots more stuff too! Yaaaay!

We're at a turning point in the story – sort of the midway point? Maybe. I guess? What I _mean_ to say is that the action, the sex, and the darker aspects should start becoming more prominent shortly. Argh, I know, I know, I keep saying that – but this story just keeps _expanding_ on me! There's just _so much_ story to tell!

Thank you, thank you, thank you to all my wonderful, amazing reviewers so far, especially you incredibly regular ones who I am so lucky to have! And a special mention for those who comment as guests who I can't PM: _Jerry_, _Iseult_, _R-for-Red_, _Glitzandglam_, _MaddieGeorgia_, _Emllew_ and all the anon guests – thank you for your feedback! I love it! :D

::wanders off to imbibe _more_ coffee::


	25. Glósóli-Leg Hún (She's the Glowing Sun)

_Author's Note:_ First, this story was up until just recently called "_The Enemy of My Enemy_," – more about that change in Author's Note at the end. I hope it hasn't mucked things up for you guys :s Sorry if you had to hunt the story down due to the change. Oh, and argh! The story has made it to 200 reviews! ::does happy flail dance:: You guys…honestly, you guys are the _best_. Like, the _bestest_! For realz.

I wrote all but 2,000 words of this chapter over twelve short hours, many of which were spent running after small humans, so mistakes? They will be in here, I am _sure _of it. My pre-emptive apologies. The title of this chapter is from the song _Glósóli_ by the amazing band Sigur Rós. Also, this chapter contains graphic descriptions of _violence/gore_.

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Glósóli-Leg Hún**_

_**(She's the Glowing Sun)**_

# # #

Hermione twiddled with the scroll in her hands, unrolling it and letting it spring back up into a curl of paper, listening to Cho, Ginny and Luna talk. A constant wash of muted chatter and soft giggles as they talked boys and gossip, with Luna's occasional comment on how _that_ sounded just like _Polliwiggles_, or _Humptyscrumps_, whatever completely imaginary creatures _they_ might be. Hermione sat in the big overstuffed armchair at a right angle to the couch Ginny and Cho sat on, Luna sitting cross-legged on the floor and making little flowers out of some coloured paper she'd found somewhere. It was cosy and relaxing, despite Hermione's worry about how his reunion with his mother was going for Draco. She wanted to be there with him. Well, she didn't particularly want to see Narcissa Malfoy, but she wished she wasn't just sitting here waiting uselessly.

What if Narcissa was a horrible cow and made Draco feel terrible?

It was nice to be sitting with Cho, Ginny and Luna while she waited for Draco to come back, though. So far they didn't seem to expect her to do much more than interject an occasional comment into the conversation, or absentmindedly agree with something one of them said. They seemed to understand that she had something on her mind. Hermione suspected they thought she was daydreaming about Viktor, the thought of which made her flush, mortified. But at any rate, sitting here and thinking and half-listening to their conversation was far better than sitting up in her room alone. Her head was stuffed full of thoughts, mostly about Draco, how on earth to break into Gringotts, and Tonks.

She wanted to corner Tonks later, and make sure she really hadn't told anyone. Maybe ask her for a little advice at the same time… Hermione hadn't had anyone to share her feelings with, and it wasn't fair. Most girls got to giggle and sigh over falling in love; with their friends, or even their mother. Hermione's mum had no idea she existed, and her friends… Hermione looked at the group of girls in front of her. Luna was stringing the paper flowers onto a shoelace she'd unthreaded from her sneakers, and Ginny was making a horrified face as Cho said, "…and Merlin, he's the best kisser ever. I could spend _hours_ snogging him –" Ginny clapped her hand over Cho's mouth, "I do _not_ need to hear that about Ron, thank you very much. I saw enough of that disgusting carry on when he was dating Lavender. _Ick_." Luna smiled up at the other two, "I think it's romantic. You two make such a good couple. Opposites attract, just like the Purple-Livered Pickwick and the Grubbulous Truss." Ginny snorted at the blonde, who threaded a horrendous orange and puke-green flower onto her shoelace. "It may be romantic – not that I can ever picture _Ron_ being romantic – but as the sister of _Mister Romance_, I still don't want to hear about it."

Hermione grinned, shifting in the chair, legs tucked up under her, running her fingers through her waving hair. Ginny and Cho were good friends, but she couldn't talk to them about Draco. They would be horrified. They would react just like Harry did, with concern and accusations, and even if they accepted it in the end; they certainly wouldn't want to hear about her relationship. Luna…Luna wouldn't have a problem with Hermione and Draco being together. She already knew there was something going on between them – but if Hermione asked her for advice she'd probably get some vague sayings and comforting words, and nothing useful or properly supportive. Luna was a lovely person, but she had always irritated Hermione slightly. There were no such things as bloody ridiculous Crumple-Horned Snorkacks!

At any rate, it would be nice to have Tonks to talk to – if she was happy to talk to Hermione, anyway. She might not be. But Tonks hadn't seemed disapproving of their relationship. She also had experience in difficult relationships; relationships that society frowned on. It hadn't exactly been easy for her and Remus in the beginning – between the age gap and the fact that he was a werewolf, they had overcome their fair share of problems to be together. She gazed over at the two of them – Tonks lying back against the arm of the sofa she and Remus sat on – he sitting at the other end and trying to read, his book propped up on Tonks' feet which lay in his lap. She murmured something to him, her hand cradling over her belly, and Remus dropped his book and placed a hand over the swell of her stomach, smiled tightly and said something, their fingers lacing together over her belly.

A thought flashed sudden into Hermione's head and she gasped, crushing the scroll as her hands spasmed.

She thought about the future suddenly – if she survived this goddamned war, if Draco survived. Would she have children, one day? Would she have children with _Draco_? Hermione had no idea if what was between them would take them that far, but she thought of Draco looking at her with that _terrified_ happiness Remus had in his eyes when he looked at Tonks, and her heart skipped. Hermione would very much like to see that look on Draco's face. God yes.

Hermione found herself picturing babies with scrunchy-red faces and big grey eyes; toddlers with lovely straight brown hair and pointy little chins; little school-age mini-Draco's – but without the bigotry – going off to Hogwarts on the train. Draco would probably want to name the child after some astronomical _thing_, to continue the apparent family tradition, and she imagined a dark haired, grey eyed little boy with a pointy chin and a name like _Pollux_. A delirious smile spread over her face for a moment, and then faded too quickly. Hermione stifled a hysterical, teary laugh; she knew dreams of babies and ever-lasting love were silly thoughts, she knew even the probability of both her and Draco _surviving_ was slim enough.

It was a painful flash, from fantasy to reality.

Hermione _didn't know_ what would happen after the war. For some reason the thought of the war ending made her feel nervous now, as much as she wanted it to. She liked to dream of happy endings, but she knew that wasn't how life really worked. Her and Draco being together during the war made some sort of weird sense. But afterwards…? He would probably be pushed away by the fact that all her friends disliked him, and drift back towards his old life and the old friends that survived. Draco would live in his old family home where Hermione was tortured, and she wouldn't ever want to go and visit him there because of that. And she would get some boring position at the Ministry, and Harry and Ron would nag at her about Draco, and they would never see each other between Harry and Ron's disapproval and Draco living at the Malfoy Manor and…and…and they'd eventually realise they just weren't compatible, and split up – and he'd find some more _suitable_ pureblood witch to marry, and she'd end up a workaholic spinster living in a tiny flat with only a cat for company.

Tears bloomed in Hermione's eyes and she felt sick for a moment, before she shook herself and cleared her throat firmly. God, she was being ridiculous; she'd just plotted out the demise of their relationship. The awful thing was, she really could see it happening that way. But it didn't have to be that way. It didn't. Not if they _wanted_ it to work. She looked up at the doorway, waiting for Draco to appear there, so she could make her excuses and slip away from the others, down into the cellar. Hermione sighed, mushing her cheeks into her hand, elbow propped up on the well-padded arm of her chair.

"Looking for Viktor?" Ginny's teasing voice broke into Hermione's internal mad gibbering, and she looked up with a start, chin digging into her palm. "Sorry, what?"

"Viktor? I saw you two talking earlier, before the meeting." Ginny waggled her eyebrows and leered at Hermione, who blushed. God, this was the last thing she needed. "Seriously, no, Ginny. I'm just thinking about ways to get into Gringotts."

"Oh, sure you are. I know that look anywhere. That was a 'I'm thinking about a boy' look," Cho pinpointed triumphantly, and Hermione groaned under her breath. Of all the moments for them to pay attention to her, it had to be now. "Seriously, I am not daydreaming about Viktor. He and I are friends – _friends_. That's all."

"Well, if that's the case, I'm not entirely sure _he_ knows that, Hermione," Cho continued lightly, "Didn't you see the way he was staring at you all through the meeting? I was glued to Ron and even I noticed." Ginny made a face at the 'glued to Ron' comment, but nodded agreement. "He likes you, definitely. I can't believe you don't like him! I mean, come on, have you seen him? He's just…"

"Uh huh… How could anyone _not_ like him?" Cho sighed, both she and Ginny staring into space with faraway looks in their eyes – Hermione could practically _see_ the metaphorical drool dripping off their chins. "I don't know…" Luna disagreed idly, tying off her hideous-rainbow-shoelace-necklace of paper flowers and flipping it over her head, "I'm not that keen on him."

"Yes, but that's because you have a crush on Neville," Ginny pointed at Luna, grinning. Luna didn't blush, just nodded, head canted to one side, and said, "Yes, that's true. He has such lovely stubble now. And his teeth fit his head, too, which is always something I look for in a boy." Hermione couldn't help snorting a muffled laugh at that, covering her mouth with her hand. "Yes, teeth…" Ginny side-eyed Luna and went on, "But Hermione doesn't like anyone else, so there's no reason for her not to like Viktor." And of course, when Ginny said that Hermione didn't like anyone else, Hermione just had to look involuntarily embarrassed, and Cho just _had_ to notice. "You like someone? Who do you like? Tell us!" Ginny glared at Cho and elbowed her, and Cho looked mortified, "Oh. Oh, it' not Ron, is it…?" Hermione recoiled, "No, god no! My feelings for Ron are purely platonic. Honestly."

Cho looked relieved, and then her dark brows furrowed. "So who _do _you like?" Hermione groaned, audibly this time. "No one. Honestly! I wasn't thinking about boys before, I was thinking about Gringotts. There _has_ to be a way to get in there." Ginny shrugged, "No one else has thought of one yet." Hermione waved Ginny down, "No, but we've only just started seriously considering the matter. With enough research, time and careful thought, there _has_ to be a way." Cho shifted in her chair, rubbed her stump through her pinned up trouser leg. "Could there be a Muggle way to do it, maybe?" Cho looked around the small group, "Hermione was telling me about Muggle prosthetics – is that the right word? Anyway, fake legs, made with Muggle methods. Apparently, they're far superior to the more ordinary magical replacements. Is there something that could help us get in?" Hermione frowned, racking her brain, but nothing popped to the surface, except for the smug thought that she had successfully redirected the conversation. "I can't think of anything off the top of my head, but I'll talk to Harry about it, and Dean and any other Muggleborns. Maybe we can come up with something." Hermione grinned at Cho, "That's a brilliant idea."

"Well, I am a Ravenclaw," Cho began saying, and then the sound of the front door slamming made everyone sitting around in the lounge jump, and Tonks swear, and then heavy boots clomped on the foyer floor. _Draco!_ Hermione thought immediately, and her heart did an odd little leaping thing as he rounded the corner, tromping into the lounge. And then her heart sank just as quickly as it had leapt up, and twisted with sharp sympathy and concern. Draco looked awful. His head was bowed and his shoulders slumped, his left sleeve shoved up above his elbow – but he _never_ showed his forearm in front of the others, Hermione thought, confused – and the Mark was excruciatingly obvious to everyone. His voice was low and rough as he stopped in front of Remus and growled, "The damned nosy Auror said you wanted to see me?" The glare on his face made Hermione shiver with perverse lust, and she shifted in her chair, trying to see him properly – trying to catch his eye and smile at him.

"I wanted to talk to you about future missions," Remus said, loud enough that anyone who really strained to listen could hear, and Hermione was straining – so were the other three girls, from the sound of complete silence that filled the lounge. Draco raised an eyebrow, Hermione thought, and his hand ran through his hair. Merlin, he was gorgeous. And rather distressed looking, Hermione reminded herself, steering her thoughts back on track. "Can it wait?" Draco snapped out, and Remus blinked, taken aback. "Well, yes. I suppose so."

"Good." Draco whirled on his heel and stormed out of the lounge, eyes flicking over Hermione as he went and she saw they were red-rimmed like he'd been crying. Draco gave no outward sign he'd seen Hermione curled up in the overstuffed armchair, but she saw a glimmer of recognition as their eyes connected briefly – his were bloodshot grey and sparking with tarnished silver, dark bruised shadows stained around them. And then he was gone, the sound of his boots thudding away and fading to nothing, and Cho puffed a breath out, fringe fluttering. "Well he was pissed." Ginny snorted and picked at her jeans, "He's always pissed. Arrogant bastard. Did you see how he was flaunting the Mark? Like he was proud of it or something. Fucking _dick_."

Hermione felt her blood pressure skyrocket as she listened to the others, and she sat forward in her chair, "He's not proud of it," she snapped so harshly that she almost startled herself, Ginny's eyes wide as she shrank back from Hermione, "And if you ever talked to him without being a total _bitch_, then you'd know that!"

"I just –"

"No!" Hermione cut off Ginny's excuses, "He fought with us last night. He killed one of his old friends to save my life! He's not a bad person!"

"He certainly fucking acts like it," Ginny sniped back. "Sorry, Hermione, but he's hardly _likeable_, is he?"

"So? That doesn't mean it's okay to make out that he's _flaunting the Mark_, when he's _not_. He regrets what he did, I know that, because I've actually tried being nice to him!" Hermione's pulse raced and she felt nervous, angry sweat prickle up on her skin as her adrenaline flowed. She didn't want to argue with Ginny, but she was being unfair, and Hermione couldn't let her jabs at Draco slip by without comment. Ginny gave Hermione an assessing look. "If it wasn't the Ferret, I'd think you had a crush on him. What, was it _him_ you were gazing over at the door looking for?"

"Ginny, don't be mean," Cho chided, dark eyes censorious, just as Hermione huffed and snapped, "Don't call him the Ferret! And maybe I was just _thinking_, did that occur to you? Like I said, I was trying to think of ways to destroy a Horcrux – an actual important thing, unlike gossip about boys! Relationships aren't all there are to life – we have things like a _war_ to worry about." Ginny went a shade of red that clashed terribly with her hair and opened her mouth to rail back at Hermione. But before Ginny could say anything, Luna piped up, eyes glinting.

"Oh, but war is where most of the best love stories come from. Lots of them are terribly sad though. I remember one about a wizard from Britain, Cela Note, who fought in the war of _Le Guerra di Indipendenza Magico_ in Italy, centuries ago. That was the war when intelligent magical non-humans in Italy fought free of Wizard rule," Luna added, and Hermione nodded, still fuming and waiting for Luna to hurry up and finish her silly story.

"He fell in love with an Italian Muggle, whom the story calls _Della Fanciulla_, the Maiden. Cela used to slip away from his fellow wizards, and Dellafrom her family home, so that they could meet for secret, ah…trysts. And they were happy, and fell deeply in love through their many meetings." Luna was suddenly speaking with such lilting, sad serenity that the others found themselves transfixed, Hermione included. She had never heard this story before.

"One day Cela Note crept away to meet with Della before a battle. But the Centaurs they fought that day were wise, as Centaurs are, and they ambushed the Wizarding side near where Cela was meant to rendezvous with Della. Cela waited for her in the doorway, ignorant that the battle was raging nearer and nearer. Time passed and she still did not come, and Cela became worried. And then Cela heard a woman's screams – Della's! – and the clattering of hooves sounded; the cracking of spells. He saw Della, with her long dark hair streaming out behind her, and she saw Cela and ran to him. Kissed him on the mouth in the doorway, she was so relieved and frantic, because being a Muggle she had no idea what was happening to her… And as Cela held Dellain his arms and kissed her back, a flash of green light lit up his world, and she went limp in his arms, her dark eyes went blank."

Hermione gasped aloud, and then covered her mouth, embarrassed. Luna smiled vaguely and went on, "It was one of the wizards, whose Killing Curse had gone awry. Della had been killed by one of Cela's own friends." There was a collective sigh from the girls, and Luna finished, "My father told me that the moral of the tale was that, 'Secrets are like a sickness in the soul; they eat away what is good and leave only destruction behind.' If only Cela and Dellahad been open with their love, they would have been able to meet in a safe place, she would not have died."

"That's so _sad_," Cho said limply, looking deeply disheartened, and Luna nodded sagely. Hermione felt distinctly uncomfortable. Was Luna looking at her out of the corner of her eye? Was that story aimed at her, and her relationship with Draco? It had to be. Didn't it? Hermione shifted on her chair, clearing her throat. "Luna? What happened to Cela afterwards? What did he do?" Luna's protuberant pale grey eyes fixed on Hermione's, solemn and earnest. "Cela laid waste to both sides in the following battle, killing enemies and friends alike, including the one who accidentally killed Della. He didn't appear to care whether he lived or died, and he was said to have fought like a demon. And then he fled Italy, hunted by the rest of the Wizarding community for his treason. No one knows, but it is said that he became a drunk, and reckless with his life, and not several years later was killed by a wizard he would have easily bested if sober."

"How _depressing_," Ginny said flippantly, and Luna beamed at the redhead, flopping down on her stomach and fiddling with her paper-flower necklace. "It is, rather, isn't it?" And Hermione just sat there, lost in thought. Luna had cleverly both diverted the argument brewing between Hermione and Ginny, and used her choice of story to make a point to Hermione that Luna obviously thought Hermione should hear – and she'd done it in such a way that her point had been firmly stuck in Hermione's mind. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Luna was a Ravenclaw.

"How do _you_ think we should get into Gringotts?" Hermione asked Luna, and the younger witch smiled, "I don't quite know, but I'll have a think about it, shall I?" Hermione ran a hand through her hair. "That's a good idea, Luna," she said absentmindedly, deep in thought herself.

# # #

Draco was perched on the edge of a worn antique sofa, back stiff and shoulders knotted with tension. His mother sat down on a sofa opposite him, across a short stretch of green and gold paisley carpet. "So…your father used the CruciatusCurse on you?" Narcissa's voice was subdued and nervous, and her hands trembled as she folded them neatly in her lap. Draco ran the question through his head again, the sheer incongruity of having one's mother have to ask that sort of thing making his mind tumble and spin. He wished he'd never come here. He had thought seeing his mother again would somehow miraculously fix the rents in their relationship, but instead it had only torn the rips further. Draco's lips split into a humourless smile. "So surprised, mother? After _this_?" he said and lifted his broken, maimed arm. The mending bones itched and ached as the pain potion he had taken before bed in the early hours of the morning began to wear off, and Draco resisted the burning urge to scratch at it.

His mother turned her face away from his arm and her mouth thinned. Draco wondered if it was that she couldn't stand looking at it because of the guilt and pain it made her feel, or if it was just too ugly for her delicate sensibilities. There was a short silence, and then Narcissa whispered, "He had no choice, Draco. The Dark Lord ordered it."

"He had a choice this time, mother. He didn't have to _crucio _me; he did it because he wanted to. He called me a traitor, said I wasn't his son, that I was a disappointment…and then tortured me." Draco said, and then added with brittle faux-brightness, "Oh, and he asked after you, too."

"Were you fighting on _their _side, Draco?" His mother's voice was grief, anger, and fear, all wrapped in shreds of Malfoy pride. "Were you coddling _their_ children?" Draco shot back. Pangs of jealousy. Draco could barely remember those times long ago when his mother had treated him like that little boy; like a memory of a dream. Draco was jealous of a small boy getting scolded for making a bedroom mural from condiments. Fucking _sad._ "No, actually. Arthur is Hestia and Edmund Harkness' child, and Margrethe is the Leviathans'," Narcissa answered primly and Draco frowned. "But, they're…"

"Death Eaters? Yes. I was brought here to help care for children taken in raids." His mother's fine features contorted with distaste. "The so-called _good_ and _righteous_ Order of the Phoenix – ripping families apart." Had Draco sounded like that? No wonder despising him had been so easy for the Order members. Draco loved his mother – despite everything, he did still love her – and even so, he wanted to shake some fucking sense into her after that illogical, self-righteous little statement. "And what would _your_ side do with small captured children, I wonder?" He said it and there was no coming back from that wording, that implicit statement of position. _Your side_. It was strangely freeing. His mother flinched and protested regarding the children, although Draco knew she noticed his emphasised word choice.

"The Dark Lord has no quarrel with children, Draco." She sat there, trying to appear serenely self-confident, but Draco could see the same doubt and fear and denial rippling over her face that he had felt when he had been a Death Eater. She knew fucking better than that, she just chose to deny it. Pretend it didn't happen. Draco's skin felt stretched and tight around his eyes and his voice shook as he thought of what the Dark Lord did with children. Remembered what he did, pictures clear in his head. Too clear, and guilt swamped him like acid and regret.

"I can see it now. The pureblood children would be adopted by couples that could raise them to be good little Voldemort-worshippers, but the rest? The pretty ones would be parcelled out as _presents_, and the unattractive ones handed to Greyback to keep him entertained. You know perfectly well where some of the Death Eaters tastes lie – you know what would happen to those pretty little kids. And _everyone_ knows what happens to the ones Greyback and his _people_ are given – they leave the remains lying in full enough view." Draco's stomach lurched; his entire being shrinking away from the mental images the truth conjured. "Remember how he used to make me clean up the leftovers, mother? _Do you remember that?_" Draco had thrown up for days afterwards every time he remembered the smell, the feel, and the _faces_… _Fuck_. He tried not to picture it again, but he couldn't help it, bile rising harsh in the back of his mouth. Narcissa sat pale and still as marble. "I – I don't – Draco, I…"

"Yes, mother. I know you don't approve of that," Draco said sharply, acid lacing his tongue. "No child deserves that, mudblood or not," his mother said, as though she thought she deserved a prize for believing in the most basic human decency, her glacial eyes watery and reddening.

"No, no one deserves it. Child or adult, in fact. And yet, as much as it sickens you, mother, you still appear to support Voldemort's regime."

"Your side," Narcissa repeated his words of a moment ago. "Voldemort's regime. So you have truly defected, then."

"_Yes. Yes_, mother. How else do you think I managed to have my lovely little reunion with father? I met him on the battlefield." Draco's eyes glazed and he remembered, speaking slowly and with increasing venom. "I stared down my wand at him, and I thought about what he _did_ to me, and I still couldn't fucking curse him." Draco glared at his mother, words beginning to spill harsh and desperate. "I remembered the look on his face when he told me to _take your punishment like a Malfoy_, before the knife cut my flesh. And I _still_ couldn't…"

"Draco…Draco." Narcissa reached out toward Draco across the short stretch of paisley carpet that may as well have been an abyss for how distant he felt. He caught her eyes and her hand wavered in the air and withdrew, curling up on her lap like a wounded animal; pale fingers crumpled and tense. "I begged the Dark Lord not to hurt you. I _begged_ him. Both of us did! You're our son, Draco. I went on my knees before the Dark Lord and I offered him anything – _anything_ – for him to stop punishing you." His mother's voice was low and overflowing with shame, and pain, and abject failure and Draco listened in horror. His mother's pallid cheeks flushed with colour and her gaze slid away from his. "I – I didn't know." He looked down at his boots on the carpet, his own cheeks burning.

_Anything_. Fuck. Fuck. Draco didn't want to know that. He felt ill. What if Voldemort had taken his mother up on that, and hadn't kept his word? Draco didn't want to look at her. She had done that for _him_? Offered…offered herself to that _snake_ for him? He felt like he should thank her, but that would be so _wrong_. He felt like he wanted to ask her if Voldemort had, but he didn't really want to know. Draco clamped his mouth tight shut and stared at the scuffed toes of his boots, stomach churning up into his throat.

"But the Dark Lord would not be dissuaded," Narcissa continued, and Draco shuddered a sigh of relief; and yet the crawly, awful knowledge that _she would have_ remained. He didn't want _anyone_ to do anything like that for him _ever_, let alone his mother – with Voldemort. "I suggested to Luc– your father that we flee – I begged _him_ too, but he refused to run –"

"Yes. If we had run, he would have missed out on the opportunity to _sever my hand_. It's not often you get _that_ chance." Draco was shivering uncontrollably; try as he might he couldn't hold himself together – rage and despair drowning him. "He – he said it was better for him to do it than leave it to someone who hated you, who would _want_ to hurt you," Narcissa said in a small, doubtful voice, and Draco snorted violently. "He _enjoyed_ it mother. You know that as well as I," Draco bit out past gritted teeth and bloodless lips, and his mother's face crumpled just a little. "He's been…different…since he came out of Azkaban. The Dementors… He hasn't been himself."

"Mother, he's _mad_."

"They caged him like an animal! They took away his happiness! For months and months. He just…he just needs a bit of time." Tears were spilling over onto Narcissa's cheeks. Draco felt a tug in his chest, and he forgot _everything_ and became the small child who didn't want his mother to cry. He was up on his feet, and then sitting on the sofa beside her before he made the conscious decision to move. His hand patted her shoulder awkwardly as Narcissa wept, silent and shaking. "I'm sorry, Draco," she whispered at last, hands blindly seeking his and pulling it off her shoulder, clutching it tight in both of hers. "I'm so sorry. For everything. I – _we_ – were meant to protect you, but…"

Draco listened to Narcissa apologise in a hushed, tear-filled outpouring, and he didn't know _why_, but each word felt like a slap in his face. "It was the _Dark Lord_, and betraying him by leaving would only – only have sealed our fates. Your father stayed loyal because of you – he stayed to try to safeguard _you _–" Draco extracted his hand forcibly from his mother's grip, anger a seething mass in his chest. "Well it didn't work, did it?"

"Draco…" She pleaded with him to understand, but he _didn't_. "Why didn't you go to Dumbledore when Voldemort first came back? Seek protection?" he asked tightly, and Narcissa's tears began to ebb, and she produced a handkerchief from somewhere, and dabbed her face delicately. Between sniffles she said, "Draco, Dumbledore was an advocate for mudbloods! Your father and I might not have been comfortable with the Dark Lord's methods, but we have always approved of his essential goal." Draco recoiled, and stood stiffly. His blood thrummed loud and hot in his ears, and he looked at his mother and saw only Narcissa Malfoy. The memory-mother of his childhood – that rose-tinted glasses view of the past Draco had clung to, was just…gone. Obliterated.

Draco looked at his mother and saw only a woman who had made terrible, awful mistakes – mistakes that had nearly cost her son his life. That had maimed him and twisted him, hurt him and in the end ripped everything he had cherished and believed away from him…all because of _blood_. Because of some senseless fucking bigotry about _blood_, that meant absolutely _nothing_.

"I'm in love with a mudblood," he said thickly. He felt so _strange_. Like he was moving in water, like he was drugged. Narcissa jerked her head up to look at him, eyes piercing him. "Who?" she demanded, and Draco shrugged, mouth a pained sneer. "It doesn't matter to you. To you she's just a mudblood. But I love her. And…" His voice broke and his cheeks flushed at the sheer emotion in his words. "And she loves me too. I know it. She _told _me," Draco insisted, and it was like he was still trying to convince himself that Hermione had really meant it. He still found it hard to believe. "Is it that Granger girl?" Draco ignored Narcissa's pointed question.

"And you think…what, mother? That the person I love is lesser than us, just because of her _blood_? I thought that too. For most of my life I looked down on Muggleborns. I _resented_ them. I thought they were little better than savages, and that Muggles were just _animals_. That they should serve us, not live alongside us." It felt good to admit to that, even though it hurt him – knowing that he had believed that up until so fucking recently was frightening. Awful. Abhorrent. "I was a cruel, horrible, arrogant bigot." Draco felt so ashamed, looking back. All the things he had said to people who hadn't deserved it. All the things he had done. Mocking, tormenting, hexing, _hurting_.

"She is the most incredible person I have ever met, and I don't deserve her. She deserves so much better than me. And yet I always thought she was dirt, because she was _just a mudblood_, because _you_ raised me to be a hateful little bigot. I treated her like dirt…" Draco sniffed loud and wet and was mortified to find he was _crying_, and he tried to stem the tears, smudging over his face with the back of his wrist. "You – you let father try to make me into a _monster_," Draco said, and stared at his mother, sniffing back his tears. Narcissa was so white Draco thought she was going to faint, and her face was sopping wet, her handkerchief a drenched ball of cotton in her fist. "I'm so – so sorry. It was what I believed…what my parents taught me, what your father – father believed," she hiccupped through her tears. "I did what I thought was right! I didn't know… I tried to protect you, I –"

Draco's heart was thundering, and he felt phantom prickling in the non-existent fingertips of his missing hand, breath coming ragged and jerky. "Protect me? _Protect me?_" Infuriated disbelief saturated his words. He stared at the sleeve covering his left arm helplessly for a second, and then grabbed the unbuttoned cuff in his teeth – the only way to drag his sleeve up. "This!" Draco thrust his arm out – pale, smooth skin forever marred by the ugly Mark; horror and Dark magic infused into his very flesh. "This is what your _protection_ got me!" Voice raw, cracking and shattering on the words, face twisted and dark with incoherent fury. "And _this_." Draco thrust out his other arm; the ugly stump with its ragged purple-red scars webbing over it. "This is your protection, mother? _This_ was the best you could do?"

Narcissa sat horrified and frozen, shame enveloping her tangibly, and she choked on her tears. Draco was _glad_. "Draco, I'm sorry," she repeated frantically, and Draco _snapped_, stepping forward fast and looming over her, yelling. "_Sorry_ doesn't fix _this_, mother! Sorry doesn't give me my hand back! Sorry doesn't change a single fucking thing!" He stepped away from her jerkily, heaving jagged breaths and coming apart at the seams. There was a slight sound, and he spun toward the doorway, reaching for a wand that wasn't there, with a hand that wasn't there either. Delia Tiptree stood there, hand wrapped around the hilt of her holstered wand. "Is everything all right, here?" Tiptree frowned cautiously. "_No_. No it's fucking _not_." Draco snarled tiredly, and his shoulders slumped.

Draco walked away from his mother.

Tiptree stood alert but ready; hand still resting on her wand as she waited for Draco to walk past, her expression impassive. "Draco! Please! Please, I love you!" Narcissa cried, and the depth of emotion in her tone made Draco's steps stutter to a halt. He had rarely heard his mother sound so much like she meant something, meant it with all her heart. And so let it burst free in front of an Order member was just another sign of how desperate Narcissa was, all traces of her dignity fleeing. Draco took a breath and began walking again, reaching Tiptree and searching for words, standing there like a fucking idiot. "Malfoy?" Tiptree asked and Draco met the tall woman's eyes. "Take me home." Tiptree stepped aside and let Draco pass out of the drawing room. "I love you!" his mother cried as he crossed the threshold, and Draco's chin trembled with trapped sobs as he walked away; striding fast down the wide hallway with his boots thudding muffled on the carpet.

Tiptree dogged his heels, and Draco knew without having to look that her hand was still wrapped around her holstered wand. He snorted. He was unarmed, and she was a trained Auror, and she still felt the need to watch him like a hawk? "Draco!" His mother's voice rang out as Draco reached the kitchen door. His head bowed and he gripped the doorframe, leaning on it heavily. A sigh seeped from his lips. Draco looked back and saw his mother standing in the middle of the hallway; naked desperation carved into her every feature. "Don't. _Don't_," he said, and pushed himself away from the doorframe feeling leaden and exhausted. He heard her footsteps rushing after him, out of tune with his and Tiptree's, and he winced. Why couldn't she just fucking _leave it_?

A hand closed over his arm in the middle of that sunny, cheerful kitchen, and Draco looked down at it. Slim and graceful, fingers digging hard into his bare forearm and half covering the Dark Mark. "I love you," she said, and Draco kept his eyes on her pale hand and the Mark that peeped out from between her fingers. The coils of the snake broken up by his mother's grasp, the uncovered eye that stared hollow and evil. "That's not how love works," Draco said dully, and waited. "Mrs Malfoy…" Tiptree stepped up and told his mother to let him go, to go help someone called Mika to see to the children, but she tearfully refused. Told Draco over and over again that she loved him, and with each repetition he grew angrier. But he stood frozen, turning his face away and looking at the floor, the windows, the wall – anywhere but his mother. In the end Tiptree had to physically pry his mother's hand away, and she seemed to give up at last, dissolving into noisy, ugly sobs.

Draco didn't look at her. Not once.

And then he was out the door and into the sunny afternoon, blinking against the light. The bright blue door slammed shut behind Tiptree a moment later, cutting off the sound of Draco's weeping mother. His heart ached in his chest. "She does love you, for what it's worth," Tiptree said, deciding unexpectedly to communicate more than the essentials, and Draco growled. "It's worth less than nothing. And it's none of your _fucking_ business," he spat out and seized Tiptree's arm, and felt that familiar awful tug behind his bellybutton, and then they were both sucked away.

# # #

Draco stormed into the lounge, preceded by his snarled, "Why are there _people_ in my fucking cellar?" Hermione bit her lip, the remnants of conversation between her and the other girls dying a quick death. He still looked as awful as he had five minutes ago; eyes suspiciously red-rimmed and tension radiating off him. He was so angry he seemed like he was about to spontaneously combust. "Well?" He swept a livid gaze around the room, shoulders hunched up and hand balled into a fist, the Dark Mark writhing horrifyingly as the tendons and muscles in his forearm bunch and twisted under the strain. Remus gave him a careful, neutral look and said mildly, "Karkaroff's group are staying here, and there' no room except in the cellar."

"For fucks sake, what about an extension charm?"

"We're not wasting time and effort on fiddly, unnecessary spells when there's plenty of room available already, Draco," Remus answered, still calm and Hermione gnawed at her lip, shuffling forward onto the edge of the armchair, ready to get up and drag Draco out of the lounge if needed. He looked like he was about to explode, or perhaps crumble apart, a vein in his temple throbbing and his mouth sneering and furious, his fist trembling a little. Hermione swore inwardly, berating herself. She should have fobbed the others off as soon as Draco had gotten back. She had _seen_ he was upset, but she'd thought he would be fine for five minutes while she extracted herself unsuspiciously from the incessant girl talk. She should have gone downstairs. Damnit. She was a terrible girlfriend.

Draco's voice was strained as he forced out through gritted teeth, "So I have no say in whether or not I lose my privacy? I bet you wouldn't make Potter share a room with a gaggle of fucking oversized idiots without so much as a by-your-leave." "No, and no. That's just the way it is, Draco," Remus said with kindness in his firm tones. "Don't make trouble for yourself. Just leave it." Draco blinked hard and rapid, like he was trying to blink back tears, and Hermione got to her feet. Draco didn't seem to either notice or care that there was a roomful of people _staring_ at him. She needed to get him the hell out of the room before he did something that would embarrass him horribly later on. "I'll talk later," she whispered to Cho, Ginny and Luna, and picked her way past Luna, who was sprawled full length on her stomach on the floor, chin resting on her hands.

"Don't make trouble…? You fucking self-righteous _prick_." Draco's face was dark with rage as he continued, "Fuck –" Hermione grabbed his wrist and cut him off, "_Don't_," she said in a low, firm voice. Draco looked down at her hand and she realised it was over the Dark Mark, and her skin crawled in reaction. She didn't move it though. He looked at her, dull eyes sparking off further worry. It had to be something Narcissa had said or done. It had to be. God, why hadn't she excused herself from the others straight away? Maybe then she could have talked to him, figured out what was wrong before he came in here and made a scene that was going to mortify him once he'd calmed down. "I –" he began and Hermione shook her head, trying to communicate reassurance and love with just her eyes. "Leave it. Remus is right. Just leave it."

Everyone was _staring_ at them both, and even though holding someone's arm was hardly _romantic_, it was still intimate, and Hermione could feel eyes burning into her and Draco. Hermione felt like everyone had to have figured it out now, and her face went hot and she turned her head so her hair obscured her flaming cheeks from the others. "Draco," she pulled at his arm, but he stood rooted to the spot, chin trembling the tiniest bit and she realised he was trying not to cry. Her heart swelled with pity for him, and she smiled faintly. "Come on. Draco, just leave it." She pulled at him again and he went with her, stumbling in her wake out of the lounge, and everyone was still _staring_ and Hermione wanted to sink into the ground. What were they thinking? She felt hot and her palms were clammy with nervous sweat. And then they were in the foyer and she pulled out her wand and flicked it at the lounge door, and it swung shut, blocking out all those morbidly curious looks and whispers.

"Draco, what happened?" Her hand was still on his arm and she didn't want to let go, despite the creepy feeling down her spine triggered by knowing her hand was on his Mark. His hand fumbled and twisted around and gripped her forearm, so they were locked together. "'Mione." He'd never called her that before, and now when he did, it slipped out brokenly. His eyes were fixed unblinking on hers; grey irises dulled and the whites laced with burst capillaries, his expression pleading and angry and hurt. "'Mione, I…" He exhaled sharp and shaky and Hermione pulled on his arm again. "Come on. We need privacy."

"There are people in the fucking cellar. Remember?" Draco said with a curious mix of listlessness overlaying seething, suppressed emotion, and Hermione nodded. "I know. We're not going there." She led him up the stairs, and he followed without resistance, fingers wrapped around each other's arms and she could feel the tension running through him like a live wire. What had Narcissa _done_? What had she said to do this to Draco? His self-control was in tatters, and it frightened Hermione. She had never thought he could get so close to losing it in front of the others. He was always so in _control_. Whether he was being snarky, or nasty, or cold, or civil…it was always something he _chose_ to do. This had been…a near bloody breakdown. Hermione wished she could hex his mother. It had to be her that had triggered this. It had to be.

Draco's arm was cool under Hermione's fingers, and his breath was shallow and hitching as they crested the stairs and she pulled him quickly down the hallway to her room. He paused abruptly at the doorway and her grip on him made Hermione jerk to a halt too. "Come on," she urged and squeezed his arm and he stepped through, staring around the tiny space as she hurriedly locked the door and cast a good half dozen privacy spells on it. She didn't care what anyone thought if they tried to get in and couldn't. They knew Draco was her friend, and if they suspected he was something more, then…well she'd deal with it if that happened. She turned around and put her wand on the dresser by the door, and faced Draco. He stood by her bed, biting his lip, eyes on the floor.

Hermione went to him. One hand slid up to cradle the back of his head, fingers digging into his hair; the other clutched up around his shoulder, and she pressed herself against him, holding him tightly. Draco's body was tense and his arms stayed stiff at his sides. "It's all right," she whispered, tilting her head back and staring at him; emotions held back by a tenuous thread, teeth pinning his lower lip hard. He looked brittle and angry. "I love you," Hermione told him softly, not knowing what else to say or how else to help, and a sigh shuddered from his lips and his eyes slid shut. "It's all right," she said again, fingers dragging through Draco's hair and stroking over his scalp soothingly, and he made a small soft sound and his arms came up around her; fingers digging into her back and splint pressed uncomfortably against her side. Buried his face in Hermione's wild hair, his juddering breath hot on her head, as she made small soothing noises, like he was a child or small frightened animal she was calming. She didn't know what else to do.

"I love you," he said, urgent and rough into her hair. "I love you," he repeated the words muffled, fingers imprinting bruises into her skin, and Hermione's heart started beating hard and fast. Her blood felt like ti was singing hot in her veins, a fierce joy warring with her worry. Draco loved her and he'd said it. Said without an _I think_, just…said it. He loved her. Hermione scraped her fingers through his hair and buried her face against his chest, lips pressing a hard kiss on the cotton of his shirt. "I love you too," she murmured, and he held her tighter. Wet warmth dripped onto her scalp through her hair, and she stiffened in his arms. "Draco? What's wrong? What happened?" Fear fluttered as she said his name. "I went to see my mother," Draco said stiltedly. "I know." Hermione's hand stroked down the back of his neck and kneaded over his shoulders gently, feeling twists of knotted tension.

Draco pulled back from her and her hands fell back to her sides, craning her neck back to meet his eyes. "She…she still thinks…well, _everything_. But then what did I expect? For her to have the same fucking epiphany I did? That would just be fucking stupid of me, wouldn't it?" He drew shaky breath, swiping his hand over his face and wiping away the lingering tears that stained his sharp angles of cheek and jaw. "And when I asked her about why…why they stayed, why they didn't go to the Order for help when Voldemort first returned… She said they were trying to _protect_ me."

Hermione made a small sympathetic noise and captured Draco's hand in her two, pulling it gently away from his cheek. Kept it trapped with her left hand and lifted her right one up to stroke over his face with her thumb. Draco's skin was soft and cool, with tiny trails of damp from the tears. He sighed with small contentment, and instinctively pressed into her touch, nuzzling into her palm. "She tried to justify…" Draco's mouth worked fruitlessly and he trailed off into silence, eyes watering and flicking down to his maimed arm. Empathy made tears prickle behind Hermione's own eyes. The bitch. The horrible, heartless _bitch_. How on earth could you say that to your own child? What the fuck was wrong with her? Anger boiled up but Hermione shoved it back down ruthlessly. She could be angry later; right now Draco needed her sympathy, not her fury.

"There's no justification for that. You know that, right?" Hermione asked gently, and Draco hesitated for a second, and then nodded, small and unsure. "Yeah." His voice was husky and barely audible. "And she was going on about mudbloods, and…and… I told her I loved you." Hermione tensed, and he felt it, looked at her with worried eyes, "I didn't tell her it was _you_. I mean, I didn't tell her your name. I think she suspects it's you, but…" Hermione smiled faintly, not letting herself worry about secrecy right now; her thumb still stroking over the sharp angle of his cheekbone, "It's all right. It doesn't matter." She quirked her mouth at him, "How did she take it?" Draco snorted with bitter humour. "She didn't say much about it, actually." His lips flattened. "I didn't give her much of a chance, thought."

"I'm sorry." Hermione clasped both hands over his, playing with it idly, turning it over and smoothing her thumbs over his palm, repetitive and lulling. "I know how much you love her…I mean, she's your mother. OF course you love her," she amended awkwardly, feeling stupid and tripping over her words. "I don't even _know_ her." Draco stared over Hermione's shoulder at nothing, looking hard and lost at the same time. "Fuck. I used to be just like her. Exactly the same. Maybe not a believer in Voldemort's cause to the extent that Aunt Bella is, but still… I believed in blood purity – that Muggleborns were lesser, and Muggles were just clever animals. I…I don't understand why you ever looked at me as anything other than your enemy. I don't understand why you ever… After everything I've done."

"Draco…" Hermione sighed his name. So that was what was wrong – a toxic stew of rejection, anger, and guilt, all bubbling over. She pushed him back until the back of his legs hit the bed, and he sat down abruptly with an 'oof' of surprise, and pulled his hand away from hers, drove it through his hair angrily. His head was bowed, and his shoulders slumped; the picture of defeat, and Hermione wrung her hands together, feeling helpless. "It doesn't matter," she said in a small voice, wanting him to believe it and knowing even as she said the words that he wouldn't. But she didn't expect what he did do. "Don't say that," he hissed vehemently at her. "Don't you _dare_ fucking _lie_ to me!"

Hermione took a stumbling step back, recoiling from Draco's sudden, vicious anger. "I'm not! I –"

"Last night you had to ask me if I was a _rapist_! Don't you _dare_ say it doesn't matter to you, who I was – _what_ I was. Because it _does_." Draco took a shuddering breath, canting his head, those red-rimmed eyes boring into hers. "It _should_. It _should_ matter." Hermione shook her head automatically, instinctive denial. "No. It's in the past – you're not that person anymore." She wished she'd never said anything last night. Wished she'd kept her big mouth shut. Hermione Granger, the witch who had to know everything, and now that insatiable need to _know_ had come back to haunt her. And it was so _stupid_, because most of the time it _didn't_ matter. She it didn't even enter her head.

Most of the time he was just Draco – _her_ Draco – and Hermione didn't think about what he had done. Who he had been. It was just that sometimes…sometimes she was reminded. Like an ice pick in the chest. And when that happened, Hermione needed Draco to reassure her that he wasn't that person anymore, even though she knew. In her head, she knew. It was just that when Hermione was reminded of the bad, she needed a reminder of the good as well. To balance it out, or something like that.

"I am," Draco said, keeping his voice even with obvious effort. "I am that person still."

"No you're not!" Hermione was shouting, but she couldn't help it. She refused to believe that about him, and her palms sweated and her whole body felt so _hot_. She was sick with fear. She was _afraid_. Why?

"Everything I was and everything I did is part of who I am now, Hermione. You can't just wipe the slate clean. It doesn't work that way." Draco was implacable, and Hermione the one crumbling into tears now. She shook her head again, panic making her heart beat erratic and frantic; a trapped bird inside the cage of her ribs. "But you're sorry! You never wanted to do it! You didn't have a choice!" Her voice was so loud in the enclosed space, terrified and insistent, and part of her mind thought about how tragically _funny_ life was. Not a month ago Hermione had been the one arguing that Draco _had_ had a choice, and had used that to try to hurt him. Now… "Don't do this to yourself, Draco. Please. It might matter, but not enough to change the fact that I love you," Hermione pleaded with him, trying to be reasonable once more.

"I don't deserve it." His jaw was set and his eyes dropped away from hers as he said it reluctantly. Hermione wrapped her arms around her middle. You _do_. And you don't get to tell me you don't think I should feel a certain way because you believe _you don't deserve it_," she mimicked that last part in a bad exaggeration of Draco, and a corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile for a brief second. "I can feel however the hell I want about you, and I don't need you telling me that you don't serve it. You saved my life last night, more than once! You and Ron actually _worked together_! You're the one who figured out where the diadem was and how to get it in the first place!" Hermione glared at him, half-angry now.

The muscles in Draco's jaw jumped and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, eyes seeking out hers. He looked like death warmed up; tired and worn, dark shadows around his eyes, and the yellowing bruises leftover from the mission a patchwork on his pale skin. The Dark Mark stood out starkly on his arm, and Hermione fought the sudden urge to yank his sleeve back down and cover it. That would _not_ help her point. She felt shivery and cold. Draco's eyes were so terribly grave and sad. "I told myself what I did wasn't that bad. That I had no choice. That I could have done far worse. But today I realised those were all just bullshit justifications and excuses. Just like my mother tried to use on me today. You can feel however you want about me Hermione, and _fuck_ I am so glad you do, and I love you too… But… You can't _make_ me think I deserve to be with you. Because I fucking well _don't_."

Draco fell silent, still staring at her with those unflinching grey eyes. It was like he thought what he said was the truth, and that was that – subject closed. Hermione bit her tongue to stop the welling tears that were on the verge of spilling over. She stepped forward so that she stood snugged just between Draco's knees. Put her hand on his cheek, and tipped his face up to hers. Lowered her mouth to his and kissed him. Soft and tender, and he tasted like salt, and his lips were cool and passive under hers. Her lips enclosed around his bottom one, and she sucked on it gently, swiping her tongue over the plump flesh, waiting for him to react. Nothing. Draco just sat there. Tears sprang to Hermione's eyes and she drew back. "You do. You do, you do, you do!"

"I tortured Muggles and Muggleborns," Draco said, lower lip glistening with a faint sheen where Hermione had laved it with her tongue. She gulped but nodded stoically. She had known that. "I know. I set Theo's dad on fire." Draco raised an eyebrow, "That was during battle. Kill or be killed. The torture I carried out was for Voldemort's pleasure, not in self-defence." Hermione felt unease creep up her spine. "I don't care," she told him, ignoring the uneasy feelings. "I never once protested the way Voldemort or other Death Eaters treated prisoners," he stated next, and Hermione shrugged, "So? What could you have done? They would have just…well, done what they did when you did start protesting…" She looked awkwardly at the place where his hand should have been.

"I heard the Death Eaters torture and rape prisoners just for fun – behind closed doors, but I could _hear. _Sometimes they even did it in front of me, and I never did a thing to help – even when I _could_ have helped." Draco's gaze was unwavering, and Hermione wanted to look away but she refused to give in to him, to what he was trying to do. It wasn't going to work. She may not have heard the awful truth from Draco's lips until this moment, but she had known it was what must surely have happened. "I don't care," her voice shook as she spoke, belying her words.

Draco smiled sadly at her, _knowingly_, and Hermione bristled and shrank at once under the brunt of his expression. "I used _Sectumsempra _on someone once. They were going to die – I would have _murdered_ them, but Snape stepped in and killed them before they died from my curse. But they _would_ have died if he hadn't done that, so it's like I killed them, isn't it?" He looked at her like he really wanted an answer. It wasn't a rhetorical question. "I – I don't know," Hermione choked out. Draco's and snapped out and grabbed her wrist – he stood, looking down at her, the power balance completing its shift from her to him – Hermione could feel it happen, like a crackle in the air.

"Was it murder, or not, Hermione?" he asked coldly, and her mouth stretched and contorted into a tearful grimace, "Yes. Yes it was murder," she said at last, truthfully. "But I don't _care_." She was stubborn. She was Hermione Granger and she wasn't going to let him _win_.

He licked his lips nervously, and his eyes skittered away from hers nervously for a moment, before he steeled himself. Hermione watched frightened, dreading whatever it was he was going to say next. Draco forced himself to meet her eyes, his fingers curled around her wrist, cool and dry.

"I captured children, knowing they were going to be given to Fenrir Greyback and his people," he said, and Hermione's mouth trembled. "I captured them, and I handed them over to Fenrir myself, crying and wailing with terror. Screaming for their mothers. And after Fenrir and his, his _pack_ had…finished…I went into their rooms and cleaned up the mess. The leftovers. The _remains_. Little bodies torn apart and scattered on the floor. Mutilated. Unrecognisable. _Eaten_."

Hermione was shaking uncontrollably now, and Draco's hand on her wrist felt like a manacle, trapping her. She cried; not sobbing, but a silent rush of tears that bathed her face as she stared at Draco, horror-struck. The hand that held her wrist, that touched her skin, had…cleaned up… God. She wanted to block her ears, wanted to run away, wanted to _not have heard that_.

"You…you didn't have a choice, though. Did you?" Hermione's voice was a hoarse whisper, her throat clogged and filled by a burning ache. Draco released her wrist and it was with an effort that she didn't instinctively retreat from him. He lifted his hand to Hermione's face and she stayed still by force of will as he drew his fingers over the contours of her features. "I could have refused and died, rather than be party to it. You would have refused. Potter would. Weasley. Fuck, _everyone_ here would have refused," Draco choked the words out with self-loathing, eyes squeezing shut and then flying open again, piercing into hers.

Hermione tried not to picture what he had just described to her, her gorge rising already, and made herself think logically. Sensibly.

"And then you would be dead, and someone else would have captured those children. Someone else would have…cleaned up." A shudder ran through her as she said the last two words, but Hermione kept her eyes on his. "But _I_ wouldn't have done it," Draco's hand slithered down her throat, over her collarbone and shoulder, down her arm. "But I _did_, and I can't ever get rid of that. I can't wipe that fucking slate clean. I am the person who took children to brutal, bloody deaths, and then disposed of them afterwards. I will never _not_ be that person. Do you understand?" Draco ground out, fingers clamping down on Hermione's arm unconsciously, and she nodded, ignoring the pain, not wanting to break the moment. "That matters. That matters a lot," she said, and Draco's shoulders slumped, his fingers loosened around her arm, like some of the tension had run out of him. "It does," he said in quiet agreement.

"It does," Hermione echoed him, stepping closer. "But I still love you. It doesn't change that. I refuse to let it change that. Because your only choices were death, or obeying your orders, and I can't blame you for wanting to live. Because you're so sorry it's eating away at you from the inside out. Because if you were ever in that situation again…what would you do?" Draco lifted his bowed head, "I'd tell them to get fucked. I'd die rather than be part of _that_ again." Hermione smiled, weak and shaky. "I know you would. And that's why you deserve to be with me, if that's what you want. Because you've changed. And that's why I don't care, and why even though it matters, it doesn't matter at the same time. Because yes, you will have to carry what you did around with you for the rest of your life, but you _aren't_ that person anymore."

Hermione slipped her hands over Draco's shoulders and around, her arms linking around his neck, her breasts pressed lightly against his chest. Yes, when she touched him she pictured him…disposing of… But he was still _Draco_ – _her_ Draco. "I'm not the same person I was a year ago. Or two years ago, or three years. We're _always_ changing. Growing. That's the nature of being human. Your change has just been more…extreme…than most people's." She kissed his mouth, his parted lips, gently and brief. Pulled back and stared into his pained grey eyes. "I love you. Not what you were, but what you are now. I love you." And he groaned softly, like he was breaking in half, like he was crumbling away, and his arms crushed around her and this time when Hermione's mouth sought his, Draco kissed her back.

His mouth was cool and hungry, his teeth nipping and tongue delving and sweeping, sending delicious shivers down into her core, hot and electric. They swayed on the spot, clinging together, Hermione melting and trembling and coming to pieces in Draco's arms just from a _kiss_. Maybe it was the heavenly release of all the fear and worry and tension. The fiercely joyous relief and _hope_ that bubbled and fizzed through her as she jerked Draco's shirt open unceremoniously, mouth still locked to his, buttons popping off all over the floor. It was _fun_ doing it that way, she grinned, sucking on his tongue and revelling in his obvious pleasure; the bulge in his jeans pressing against her, hard and prominent.

Hermione felt almost _high_ with relief, drunk on it. Draco's chest was smooth and lean and delicious under her questing hands, and Hermione ran her palms over the planes of his abdomen, the ticklish spots on his sides, fingers creeping up and tweaking his nipples and making him 'mmph' into her mouth and squeeze her bum in retaliation.

They had a brief struggle as Hermione tried to pull his shirt off completely. Draco didn't want to let go of her so she could slide it off his arms, and she didn't care – she just wanted his damned shirt _off_. But he wouldn't let her go, and she wasn't strong enough to make him. Hermione changed tactics, her hand slipping down to his jeans, nimble fingers popping the button open before she could even think about it, as Draco distracted her with his tongue and lips and teeth all over the delicate skin of her throat. Hermione's heart beat up into her throat and her pulse thrummed, blood humming and the room feeling suffocatingly hot as she pushed down the consuming nerves that nearly overrode her desire, and unzipped his jeans, pushed them down so they crumpled to the floor, tangled around his boots.

Draco froze, and pulled back a little, looked at her questioningly. "What are you…?" Hermione was breathing shallow and quick, and she felt light-headed, adrenaline and lust a heady cocktail threading through her veins. "I'm…I just..." She didn't know what to say. She'd never done anything like this before. Hermione was nervous enough without him _questioning _her. "Is it okay, if I…?" she asked in a small voice, and Draco groaned and nodded, "_Yes_. Fuck yes. Feel free." Her hand slid and wriggled under his jockey shorts, and- oh god that was it. That was _it_. Hard and hot and velvety, her fingers, her hand – curling around it and grasping, her grip firm but not _too_ hard, just like her research had told her. Draco whimpered involuntarily, and nuzzled his face into her hair, his breath hot and ragged on her temple, his hand cool under her shirt, on the bare skin of her waist. "Fuck," he mumbled in a tight, blissful voice as Hermione twisted her hand a little as she slid it up and down, and he wobbled on his feet, making them both sway on the spot and her smile triumphantly. "Oh _fuck_…"

Hermione researched _everything_.

# # #

_Author's Notes:_ First off, eek – what did you think? This chapter was a real epic for me, especially writing most of it in one evening, and I'm actually rather happy with it. Did you like it? So much happens in it, and all very important things too. I really tried to get the characters emotions to a justified fever pitch this chapter, and give all you lovely readers so. many. FEELS. Did it work? Were there feels? :D

Next chapter, btw, should finish off the smut begun at the end of this chapter :D So do not despair if you wanted more smut than that teaser! Oh, and _this is not a baby-fic_. Don't worry, Hermione is not going to start popping out babies just because she daydreamed about having one, one day, in the far away future :D

The story name change is mostly because The Enemy of My Enemy just didn't really seem to fit the story anymore, and I didn't like it, it was a bit cliché, and something about "The Risk-Reward Ratio" really appealed to me. Partly because the board game Risk has popped up in here a few times, but also because that's really what Draco and Hermione's relationship is all about. What every relationship has, but especially theirs. And I liked the sound of it :) So…I hope it didn't make you lose the story and have to try to track it down. If so, sorry!

Oh, and do you like the cover? I have a pretty-ish banner cover thing now :) Yay!

Also, do you like (or rather not like but think it worked) what Draco describes as being what he did as a Death Eater? What do you think?

The _moral_ of the story that Luna tells is a paraphrasing of a quote I found randomly on the net, attributed to Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince.

Ramble: The story Luna tells _itself_, is actually a _true story_. It's what happened to my Great-Great-Uncle Alec, excluding the magic and such, obviously, lol. In brief, the actual details are that he was a New Zealander who fought in a war in Italy, back when my Nana was a little girl (I have no idea which war or when, off the top of my head). And Alec fell in love with a local girl while he was fighting over there, and they used to meet away from her family, secretly I believe.

And one day they had just met for a tryst, and were taking shelter up against a building because the shelling had shifted suddenly closer, and he was actually holding her in his arms trying to protect her when a fragment of shell struck her and killed her almost instantly.

When he came back home, Nana said to my mother that he was never the same afterwards – he took to drink like a lot of war veterans did to cope afterwards, especially in the days before PTSD was a recognised thing. And then one day a few years later, he hanged himself from a tree on the way to work, and wasn't discovered for some time. And I always thought that was such an incredibly, sad, tragic, romantic story to have in my family history. And I thought it was a poignant sort of story for Luna to tell Hermione, and mirrored Hermione's dark thoughts about her and Draco's future, and is a bit of a warning – and I'm so excited I got to tell it in my Dramione story!

Thank you to people I can't PM! Specifically:

GlitzAndGlam - thank you so, so much! Hehe, sorry I make you get odd looks!

Iseult - as always, you're awesome, and I hope you liked the conversation and how it turned out! I think you've hit the nail on the head with Narcissa and her behaviour. She's definitely blinded. She loves both her husband and her son, but she can't bring herself to admit what Lucius did was wrong. Maybe in part because that would mean facing how truly terrible what happened to Draco _was_. I think she's in a lot of denial.

Guest – I understand your reluctance to take the firstborn. He is a handful. I believe you made a wise choice there :p

And thus ends the longest Author's Note ever :)

Leave me some lovies, and I will write ever-increasingly wondrous things for you. Promise :p


	26. Hot as a Fever

_Author's Note:_ Well, we have shifted house (_love_ the new one) and mostly unpacked! The craziness has settled down to the usual low simmer, and I've finally had a chance to write today. Yay!

Thank you so much to everyone who has left reviews while I've been busy moving! You're all amazing, wonderful people, who have brightened my week. I haven't had time to reply to you all yet, but I will. Much, much love, to all my awesome readers.

This chapter is…um, most definitely an _M-Rated_ one. Most. Definitely. The title should tell you almost all you need to know…it comes from the Kings of Leon song, "_Sex on Fire._" So ah, be warned, it is…shall we say, _detailed_?

_Enjoy!_

**# # #**

_**Hot as a Fever**_

Hermione's tiny room was filled with the sound of their ragged breaths, and her face was burning hot as she slid her hand up and down Draco's cock. She couldn't believe she was touching it. _Touching it. _And despite everything Hermione had read in Muggle books on the subject, she really had no idea what she was doing. She was terrified she might be doing it wrong and she knewDraco was…experienced…and she didn't want to not do it right. Didn't want him to think she was…she didn't know, but she wanted to please him. Like everything Hermione did, she wanted to be good at it. She wanted to be the best. Hermione thought of Pansy Parkinson with her pug face and nasty stupid manners, and jealous anger spun through her. Hermione wouldn't be able to stand it if Draco compared the two of them in his mind, and Hermione came up lacking. From Draco's reaction so far though, Hermione smiled smugly to herself, she thought that she was doing okay.

Draco's fingers clutched convulsively at Hermione's back whenever she gently twisted her hand just _so_, and his splinted arm pressed hard against her side. His tongue was tracing the shell of her ear, teeth nipping at the lobe, and little growls of incoherent pleasure escaped his lips, breath hot on her ear, the sounds vibrating through her bones. His hips jerked against her hand in small movements she suspected were involuntary – and god that she could do that to him was so _hot_ – and her hand squeezed tighter, drawing a low moan from him that made the hairs stand up on the back of Hermione's neck, her skin rippling with goosebumps. She whimpered low and shaky, eyes sliding shut and legs feeling weak and trembly.

"I – we…are you – you sure…we don't have to…this…" Draco tried to speak and then faltered and failed, nuzzling his face into her hair instead, fingers twitching weakly against Hermione's back as she gently twisted her hand up and down the length of his cock, marvelling at how she could feel the big vein _thrumming_ with blood at the very base, at how silky his skin was, how hot it was compared to the rest of him. How _big_ he felt, and the part of her mind that wasn't muddled with nervous, excited _need_, wondered if he was really big, or if they would all seem big to her. Or if it just seemed big because she wasn't looking at it and it just _felt_ bigger than it looked. Inquiring minds wanted to know; Hermione thought deliriously and stifled a shaky giggle by grabbing his hair with her free hand and pulling his mouth away from her tingling neck to her lips.

Draco made a satisfied sound when his lips met hers, and kissed her thoroughly. Hermione melted against him – melted into his tongue and his teeth nibbling her lip and his hand kneading her bum through her jeans. The rhythm she'd slipped into of how to move her hand on _him _skittered to a stuttering halt, all her focus seized by the kiss. Wet and hot, and his lips were soft, and his tongue laced shivers down her spine and sparked pulsing need that made her slick with arousal. She wanted him to touch her there. Wanted his hand – oh god his _mouth_ – on her. Wanted to come from his tongue on her clit and his fingers inside her; but there was no way she could ask, face ablaze at just the thought of saying the words aloud.

Hermione dragged her fingers from where they twined in Draco's hair and whispered them down his temple, over soft skin to the faintly stubbled roughness of his jaw, up along the line of his cheekbone. He pulled away and stared at her intently with eyes that were awash with inky pupils; irises the darkened grey of thunderclouds. "Fuck that's good," he mumbled and Hermione's shallow breaths caught in her throat, eyes pinned to his as her hand moved up and down on his cock. Her chest felt tight and she licked her lips, "Really?" Draco smirked at the hopeful hesitancy in her tone, dropped a gentle kiss on the tip of her nose. "Fuck yes." He sighed and his fingers drew lazy, aimless patterns on her back.

"I've never… You can tell me if I'm not doing it right…" Hermione felt embarrassment wash over her and she wanted to duck her eyes from Draco's, but he looked so gorgeous and she couldn't look away. His pale skin was flushed, his lips reddened and swollen from their kisses and the way Hermione loved to nibble and suck on his bottom lip, and he looked at her like he wanted to _eat_ her. Like she was _prey_, and the thought sent the most delicious feeling of excited, nervous want through her, making her belly flip and her heart quicken. "You're over-thinking things again, Hermione," Draco murmured and nuzzled against her ear, breath hot, "Stop it." It was an order, growled low and half-teasing and Hermione whimpered and swayed against him, quivering, head reverberating with the way he had sounded. _Stop it_. Merlin, he could tell her to do _anything_ right now, and she would do it.

She wanted him so _badly_.

"Fuck, I want to see you," he said urgently, and his hand went to the buttons on Hermione's shirt and her heart started lub-dubbing so _hard_, goosebumps springing up where his fumbling fingers made the material of her shirt scrape against her skin. Every sense felt like it was intensified, and she was exquisitely aware of how shamelessly _wet_ she was, how much she ached and throbbed for him. Hermione had never realised it was possible to be this aroused; this mindlessly, desperately _wanting_. Her fingers trailed down his cock inside the confines of his jockeys, up and down, light and teasing, distracting him from his efforts with her shirt.

"Fuck," Draco swore in frustration, his one hand tugging at her shirt buttons. She looked down and saw he'd only managed to undo one, and it was hanging raggedly on its threads after his impatient efforts. "Draco…" _She_ could do it. He didn't need to get frustrated – she could do it. She wanted to say it but she bit her tongue. Hermione knew through the haze of lust fizzing in her brain that the fact that she could do it for him didn't matter – Draco wanted to be able to do it himself. Empathy welled up in her; he could never get away from the disadvantages of losing his hand, nor, no doubt, the memories that went along with the wound. Even now, during _this_ – when things should be easy and thoughtless and _good_ not some stupid struggle – Draco couldn't do what he wanted to. Couldn't forget.

Hermione stroked the back of his head soothingly, his hair silky under her touch, and he gave up, burying his face into the side of her neck, nuzzling her wild hair and soft skin. "Shit. _Fucking_ hand," he hissed, full of frustration, and sucked at her throat, tongue circling her skin. "It's all right," Hermione murmured, and he didn't answer – still sucking and lapping at her neck just below her ear, making her shiver and tingle, nerve endings buzzing on overload.

Draco's hand sought up beneath her shirt, fingers crawling from her stomach up to her breasts only to encounter the barrier of her bra. "Damnit," he whined into her neck, "Why do you have to wear so many fucking _things_?" Hermione let go of his cock and pulled her hand out of his jockeys, and he groaned, "Oh fuck, don't stop, please, Hermione, _please_…" Hermione felt a thrill and the sudden urge to just grab her wand and vanish their clothes, and devour him with her mouth and hands. Did he have any idea how _hot_ he sounded when he pleaded like that; half-begging, half-ordering?

"My shirt," she whispered huskily, voice not working right and mouth lust-dry, and Draco let her go abruptly. Hermione gasped at his sudden movement and swayed on her feet, watching him as he shrugged off his shirt, toed off his boots and socks, and kicked off his jeans, retreating a step to the wall and leaning against it. He watched Hermione intently as her hands went to her shirt buttons.

Hermione pushed her hair off her face and undid her shirt with trembling fingers, feasting her eyes on Draco. He leaned against the wall so close to being naked he might as well be, torso pale in the overcast afternoon light. Shoulders broad and no longer as thin as they had been, chest smooth, the old scars from his mistreatment at Voldemort's hands healed by one of the _Machi _sent by the Warlock of Chiloé, leaving only the cruel swirling scars Bellatrix had etched into the right side of his abdomen with her cursed blade.

The pattern could have been almost pretty from a distance if Hermione hadn't known how he had gotten it. The _horror_ contained within the pretty swirls, those thin dark purple-red marks that looked like some sort of strange Muggle body modification. Except unlike the Muggles who got such things, Draco hadn't wanted them. _They_ had hurt him. They had tortured him and marked him, and even if the other scars were gone now, his memories weren't. Hermione's chest was seized with a sudden sharp ache as she stared at him, teeth unconsciously gnawing at her lower lip.

And then Hermione's last button came undone and her shirt fell open. She shrugged it off, and stood there in jeans and bra, heart juddering and racing, breath coming short and shallow. She felt exposed. Vulnerable. Draco jerked his head at her body, "Take your bra off." There was an undertone of pleading in his rough order that made Hermione's insides quiver like jelly, and she unhooked her plain cotton bra, slid it off her shoulders and dropped it on the floor. Stood completely topless in front of him for only the second time, and she felt sick with nerves. Hermione wanted to cover herself – not her breasts but her scars, and her eyebrows scrunched together and her eyes slid away from his. Her arms tried fruitlessly to cover the words carved into her flesh.

_Mudblood_ across her chest, and carved smaller again on her stomach, with _whore_ scrawled in tiny messy slashes half across the _Mudblood_. The insides of her forearms read _Slut_ on the right and _Mudblood_ yet again on the left. Hermione felt tears sting hot behind her eyes. "What…? Hermione?" Draco pushed himself off from the wall, stepped over to her and looked down at her face, his hand stroking over her cheek, thumb dragging across her lower lip. "What's wrong?" The glazed lust had faded from Draco's eyes and they were stone grey and concerned, and Hermione berated herself for ruining the moment, for being stupid.

Hermione should be used to the scars by now. She looked at them in the mirror every single day – read the mirror-backward letters, mouthed them silently to herself, traced the thin ridges with her fingers. She shouldn't still feel a flush of hot shame and fear when she saw them by herself, when she realised they were exposed in front of Draco. Surely after all these months Hermione should be desensitised. Why wasn't she? She couldn't figure it out, and it galled her. Mostly Hermione tried not to think about it, and with everything else that had been going on – Draco, the war, _Draco and her_ – Hermione had managed to not dwell too much on the way Bellatrix had mutilated her.

But every time Hermione took a shower, she still automatically went through her brief ritual examination of the cursed scars – and as her fingers traced the letters, she remembered vividly for a moment the warm damp feeling of her jeans after wetting herself during Cruciatus. While Draco watched. Remembered the way her throat had gone raw from screaming. And Draco had done nothing. Remembered how she had wanted to die. He hadn't killed her – although that was one thing she was glad of now. She remembered Draco terrified and revolted by the torture happening in front of him. Remembered the horror Draco had briefly shown at the idea that Bellatrix was offering Hermione up for him to rape. But Hermione's memory was coloured and altered by what she knew of Draco _now_, and pity and love softened the muddled feelings of resentment and anger toward him that her memory tried to resurrect.

When she realised they were exposed, and _he_ was seeing them, it brought back all the memories. Pain, terror, humiliation, feeling _ugly_. Filthy mudblood. He had been there. She would carry the scars forever. And he had _seen_ it happen. Seen her humiliation, her punishment for having _filthy blood_. Hermione lowered her eyes as she spoke, "I just don't like you seeing them."

"Seeing _what_?"

"The scars…" she said in a small voice, and Draco made a short sound filled with both aching sympathy and frustration, pressed his lips gently on her forehead. "I've seen them before, Hermione," he said softly, thumb caressing her cheek, "Why are you trying to hide them now?" Hermione shrugged, arms plastered across herself, "I've never – we've never… I've never thought about it before," she said stupidly, feeling like an idiot. Like an _idiot_ child. Draco _had_ seen the scars before, but at the times he had, Hermione hadn't even thought of them. She had been too busy having her brain shattered into pieces by his touch. But now, _now_, having just stood in the middle of her bedroom slowly unbuttoning her shirt with him watching her like a predatory half-starved lion…she was acutely aware of them. Why now? Why did her stupid brain have to click to the fact that Draco could see Hermione's shame and fear _now_?

Why couldn't she have stayed lust-hazed and blissfully oblivious?

He stared at her for a long moment; she could feel his eyes like lead weights on her for a long moment, even with her own tear-filled eyes mostly glued to the floor. She let her eyelids fall shut, tears beading heavy and wet on her lashes, the silence in her tiny room all-consuming. And then there was a rustle and a whisper of air, and the unexpected feel of crisp cotton around her shoulders and back. Hermione opened her eyes and saw him awkwardly pulling his shirt around her; big enough that even draped clumsily around her shoulders it covered her torso, save a thin strip of creamy pale flesh down the middle of her body, from her neck to her jeans.

Draco tugged and pulled at his shirt fussily, trying to cover her completely while he muttered something under his breath, eyes dark and lips a tense line. His cock was still hard and Hermione's eyes skittered over it, feeling fragile and trembly, like she wanted to cling to him and cry and cry and cry. And some of the flood would be tears of surprised relief. Draco hadn't protested her discomfort, hadn't tried to convince her to leave her shirt off. He had just shut his mouth and covered her, what _he_ wanted set aside for now. And Hermione _knew_ he wanted to see her body. Draco wanted her naked and splayed out before him, pliable and eager, without any bloody insecurities about her body. But Hermione couldn't help it.

"I'm sorry. I _want_ to, I just…I don't like showing them. I feel… I'm sorry I ruined it." Her voice was a whisper, and Draco looked at her sharply, a spark of a smirk on his face. "You aren't off the hook that easily, Hermione." She furrowed her forehead, confused out of her mingled guilt and insecurity for a moment, "What? What do you…?" Hermione trailed off as comprehension stole over her. Draco's fingers played with the button on her jeans, fiddling with it, ever so slowly easing it through the buttonhole. He looked at her while he did it, eyes thunder and silver, with that small knowing smirk on his face that made Hermione feel clenching pulses wrench through her insides, made her flesh twitch and slick _wet_ dampened her knickers, and her skin went shivery all over. "No scars down here, right?" he asked and there was a dangerous mischief in the curl of Draco's tongue behind his teeth as he grinned. Not a smile, no; he was baring his teeth, not smiling. Like he wanted to _eat_ her, Hermione thought, and blushed brilliant red.

Oh god, he did.

He _did_.

"N-no scars," she whispered and her voice shook and the button popped free, and his strong, elegant fingers drew the zipper down as he stared into her eyes. She felt like she couldn't breathe, even though she was. Hermione's hand came up to her chest beneath his shirt, wrist twisting around so she could clutch the shirt closed, and she could feel her heart thud-thud-thudding against the skin and muscle and ribs that encased it. Draco's hand gripped the top of Hermione's jeans at her left hip and tugged, and she grabbed the right side and pulled with him, and her jeans slid down, over her bum, down her thighs; crumpling around her ankles. And she was in her cheap blue cotton knickers and his shirt, standing in front of him while his hand gripped the soft curve of her hip, and his eyes were _devouring_ her.

Her knickers were next, whisked down her legs by Draco's rough fingers, and she gasped as his fingers traced over her thigh, perilously close to the short vee of fuzz at the apex of her thighs; there wasn't a lot of time for personal grooming while fighting a war. Not that Hermione had ever been a meticulous Brazilian type of girl anyway. There was no way she would ever go get a Muggle wax – far too embarrassing – and the magical methods all sounded too prone to going horribly, terribly wrong. She didn't want some twisted genital version of the _Polyjuice_ _Incident_ to take place. And after all, Hermione had told herself after the chances of anything happening between her and Ron had melted away, it wasn't like anyone was going to see it. She felt flushed with nervous embarrassment, but Draco was staring at her _there_ and the look on his face was anything but dissatisfaction.

Hermione's legs trembled as Draco reached out and his fingers _just_ stroked over her, and her fingers spasmed around the handful of shirt she had. He hadn't even touched her clit; his mere proximity to it was enough to make her weak at the knees. "Fuck, Hermione," he ground out as his hand slipped between her legs and his fingers slid over her slick, hot flesh – so wet, god she was so wet – and she gasped at his touch and swayed into him, her free hand grabbing at his arm and he nearly overbalanced. He wrapped his broken arm around her tight to hold her steady and drew sharp breath as it took her weight while she steadied herself. "_Shit_. Fucking arm, " Draco swore and his fingers dragged firm over the exquisitely sensitive flesh between her legs as he drew his hand away and grabbed her shoulder, holding her firm.

"Sorry. I'm sorry, " Hermione gasped, waves of arousal ripping through her like electric shocks from his touch as she buried her face against the smooth skin of his chest and breathed. Just _breathed_, trying to get her racing heart under control. "Bed," Draco said harshly, and pushed Hermione backward with his fingers digging into her shoulder, and the back of her legs hit the bed and she tumbled onto it, feet tangled in her pants and knickers, wriggled her feet to kick them off, mind whirling and blurred. She was fallen back on the bed propped up on her hands, naked other than his shirt, which had fallen open, her legs sprawled apart and Draco staring down at her with something burning and urgent in his eyes. Hermione flushed and clamped her knees together.

His hand came up to cover her knee, smoothing over it and up her thigh, fingers tickling and sensitising. He tried to gently pry her knees apart, and she almost let him, but then she pressed them harder together. What was he going to do? Her eyes went to his mouth; those full lips, and was he going to…? Her breath rattled in her throat and she was terrified. No one had ever… No one had ever done that before. What if he didn't…what if she wasn't…she was flushed red and hot and embarrassed and she _wanted_ him to, but she was so _scared_. "Hermione." His eyes were on her, steady and calm, but _Merlin_, the way he said her voice sent thrills jolting through her, and Hermione shivered and stared at him helplessly. "I want to…but…" Her eyes slid shut and her fists clenched.

"Lie down," he told her and she did it with a stifled whimper, but her mind raced as her head nestled on the pillow, eyes still screwed shut, knees still jammed together. His fingers trailed the outside of her leg, from ankle to hip, dipping around at the top to brush his fingertips over the short curls that were visible despite her squashed together legs. She jolted at his touch and then his fingers ran away down again, down from the top of her thigh to her knee. How many people had Draco slept with? The thought flashed through her head suddenly. The bloody princeling of Slytherin house throughout most of his school years, Draco would have been able to get any girl he wanted. Hermione knew he must have slept with Pansy at least. She told herself she wasn't jealous, even as jealousy and insecurity swept through her in a sickening wave.

His hand tried to tug her knees apart again, but Hermione was lost in a spiral of negativity. What if she wasn't good enough? What if Draco wanted someone _better_, someone more _experienced_? He probably thought Hermione was being so bloody _stupid_ acting like this; so nervous over something he'd probably done with Pansy dozens of times. Now Hermione just felt ill, and she squeezed her eyes tighter shut, clenched her fists harder. "I want to…" She whispered again, telling herself not to over-think things, like he always said, and heard him sigh in response and fear and self-reproof seized her. He was sick of her uncertainty, sick of trying to reassure her. He was going to go. He…

"Shove over." Something prodded her side and Draco's voice, resigned but not annoyed, cut through Hermione's growing internal panic. She wriggled over and opened her eyes as Draco stretched out on the bed next to her, propped on his broken arm with only the deep crease between his brows and a slight twist to his lips showing his discomfort. "I'm sorry," she whispered and let her death-grip on his shirt go, hand coming up to cup the side of his face, cradle the sharp angle of his jaw. "You think too much," Draco said and kissed her softly, tenderly. Lips warm on hers and tongue probing delicately, and Hermione kissed him back eager and hungry, the tension and worry shuddering out of her as he gently pushed her hair off her face. Traced his finger over the shell of her ear. Slid his hand around to cradle her neck. This was familiar, this was safe; this, Hermione could do without thinking. Warm licks of flame leaped to life in her core, and she hummed with happy pleasure into his mouth.

"Let me," Draco pulled away and looked into Hermione's eyes, fingers dancing lightly down over his shirt to the crux of her body. Kissed her again and his palm smoothed over her mound, fingers curling down, pressing against her clit and she gasped and her hips lifted an inch off the bed. "Let me," he sucked on her bottom lip and swept his tongue over it, nibbled and his eyes were pinned to hers and they were dark as thunder and granite and shot through with silver frost, and his finger slid and moved on her clit and she gasped. "Oh…" She tensed and his tongue dipped into her mouth, distracting her again and Hermione didn't know if she should be glad or annoyed that he was distracting her. Relaxing her. Stopping her from thinking. Oh _god_. Glad, definitely glad. "Let me." Draco's voice was a low, harsh whisper, and the words were more an order than a plea. Hermione whimpered. He suckled at the very tip of Hermione's tongue and her womb clenched and her clit throbbed and her hips jerked sharply, pressing her clit against his fingers, and her thoughts shattered to nothing.

"_Oh_," Hermione mewled muffled into his mouth as two fingers moved in tiny circles over her clit and sent pulsing, seizing lust through her, and her hips bucked up again and her hands grabbed his hair, his shoulders, pulling him half on top of her, kissing him wet and clumsily, moans shivering out of her mouth into his. It was _good_. Fingers on her clit, circling fast and her breath came quicker and quicker and her hips jerked and her legs started trembling involuntarily and Draco was still kissing her, both of them distracted and clumsy but every swipe of his tongue made her belly coil tighter with that delicious tension, made moans and whimpers spill from her lips helplessly. "Merlin, you're so fucking _wet_," he groaned low and rough as his fingers drifted away from her clit, tracing down over slickness to dip a fingertip just….barely…not quite…in, and Hermione gasped and stiffened at the sensation. Oh. _More_. More, she wanted _more._

Her hips jutted up again and she mewled unashamedly, trying to push herself onto his finger, her hand fisted in Draco's hair dragging at it without thought, hard and rough and she didn't _care_, she just _wanted him_. "Are you? I mean…have you…done this before?" he asked her, concern and urgency, drawing back and looking down at her, faces so close that his fringe tickled her forehead, his breath warm on her cheek. "N-no…" Hermione stammered, her hand gripping his shoulder hard as his finger slowly swirled around her entrance, his thumb rubbing over her clit teasingly. Draco went red. "So you still, um, have your maidenhead, then?" He was suddenly nervous and worried, and Hermione choked back a giggle, surprised out of the heady lust that had washed away her thoughts.

_Maidenhead?_ Sometimes the wizarding world was so horribly old-fashioned.

She shook her head, and she would have blushed if she hadn't already been hot and flushed from _everything_, "No. No, I don't." Draco's fingers never stopped moving, but he looked confused, "But I thought you just said…?" Hermione rasped an impatient sigh, pelvis still tipping up against his touch, thrills still running through her, but muted now. He was distracting her. _Shut up and do it_, she begged him in her head. "You don't have to…you know…to not have your, ah, maidenhead." She felt stupid saying that archaic word, and Draco looked no less confused, fingers pausing in their motions, "But –"

Hermione whined in frustration. "I'm not about to give you a lesson on the hymen right bloody _now_, Draco. Just…_please_…"

He smirked as she begged him, looking arrogant and smug, and every inch a Malfoy, and _god_ Hermione loved him so much. She told him that as he eased his finger slowly, tantalisingly into her, told him in a drawn out shuddering breath, and he kissed her throat and said in a low, tight voice, "_Fuck_ Hermione, you feel so _good_," which wasn't exactly 'I love you' but it would do. And his finger was sliding in and out of her, and it felt so much better than when she did it, and every muscle in her body was taut as a bow string, and her bum was off the bed as she dug her heels into the mattress and arched up into his touch, his thumb moving rhythmic and quick over her clit. "Oh _fuck_, oh _god _so good…ohmigod _Draco_…good…so – so…" Hermione moaned words jumbled and strained, her throat feeling tight and raw and her hand pulling at his hair and his mouth on her throat, licking and sucking as his fingers brought her closer and closer, building and tensing and her body was _pulsing_.

And then he stopped. "Draco…!" she whinged and dragged at his hair and he grabbed her hand, hissing, "_Shit_ Hermione, stop fucking _doing_ that. It _hurts_. I'm not made of bloody stone, you know." And she let go of his hair and her stomach flipped horribly as she felt awful for hurting him and ruining the moment and…and then somehow he had slithered down the bed – _Slytherin_ – and his wet, hot mouth was on her _clit_… "Oh _god_…" Hermione's thighs involuntarily clamped either side of Draco's head, and her hands went back to his hair, trying to remember not to rip it out by the roots but his tongue was rough and hot and wet and she flinched with every rasping lap and her legs shook and she couldn't stop them, and she was so…soooo _close_.

_Two_ fingers now, pushing into her, filling her, long and curving inside her, towards her belly, and a fire lit in her, exquisite and overwhelming and the soles of her feet felt like they were _burning_ deliciously and her neck arched and her head drove back into the pillow, and Draco's tongue stopped moving and her muddled brain heard him say, "_Hair_, Hermione," and Hermione released her death-grip, grabbing the corners of her pillow instead and mewling at the ceiling. He – he was…it was…so…so… Her brain had fallen apart and all she could think was what she could _feel_, and all she could feel was what _he_ made her feel. So good. So good. Oh so _good_. Draco's tongue laving figure eights over her clit and his fingers slowly thrusting and curling inside her and her abdomen quivering, muscles spasming and her eyes slammed shut, mouth open as she gasped for jagged, wrenching breath.

And then Draco clamped his mouth down and _sucked_, sucked on her clit with his tongue still swirling over it, and Hermione gave a low, choked moan and tipped over the edge. Pleasure. Pleasure wrenched through her body, ragged and consuming, waves of it, seizing her unresisting and flooding her with _oh god oh god oh holy fuck. _"_Draco…_" Hermione gasped his name as her hips twitched and jerked and her legs shook and slammed shut on his head and her hands were vices on the pillow, and her clit washed heat and _good_ over her and her womb clenched and her flesh twitched hard and rhythmic around his fingers and her toes curled. "Oh god, Draco…" Visceral, delicious, consuming _pleasure_ – Hermione's muscles seizing and her whole body racked with pulsing, spasming pleasure for a long, delicious moment. Then; satiation. Fulfilment. Perfection.

Hermione went limp, hands releasing the pillow, legs falling open as Draco withdrew his fingers, feeling delectably _sated_, heart still pounding hard. Aftershocks juddered through her every few seconds, and Hermione gasped in a deep, slow breath, rubbing her hands over her face, blinking hard, trying to clear her fogged head. "That was…amazing…" she murmured and opened her eyes. Draco was _there_, between her legs. Placed a kiss on her clit, and she jerked and shuddered. "Too sensitive," she mumbled, flushing, and Draco grinned at her, licking his lips theatrically. He looked so bloody _smug_. Such a Slytherin, typical _Malfoy_; she deliriously accused in her head, and he kept smirking at her. "Aren't you glad you let me, Hermione?"

"_Yes_," she said small and whimpering and desperate before she could stop herself, and his smirk spread. "It was..." she trailed off and brushed his fringe out of his gorgeous grey eyes. Everything looked perfect. Everything was right with the world for one, wonderful moment. Draco's hand rested flat palm down on her lower belly, and he rested his chin on the back of his hand, lazy and relaxed, still looking so smug she would want to slap him if she didn't love him – if he hadn't just done _that_. They lay there quietly for a moment. Draco opened and shut his mouth a couple of times, shifted his jaw side to side like it ached and Hermione realised it probably did after all _that_, and felt slightly guilty.

Draco shifted his hand and pushed his fingers through his hair gingerly, resting his cheek on the soft skin of her abdomen, sighing softly, the faint stubble on his jaw rasping on her stomach as he nuzzled his face against her. "I'm sorry about your hair – pulling your hair." Hermione felt like her limbs were leaden, her mind fuzzy and contentment swamping her. "Completely understandable," Draco said dryly – she _thought_; it was hard to tell what his tone was with his face squooshed into her stomach like that. "I didn't mind." Draco paused. "Well, actually, yes I _did_ mind, but…it's fine, Hermione." He made a growling sound in the back of his throat and nuzzled at her belly, "Fuck you're delicious." And then he bit the slight jut of her pelvic bone on her left side and she squeaked with surprise. "But too thin." Draco smoothed his hand over her side, the slight bony bump where her pelvis jutted out, and Hermione mm-ed happily at the feel of his hand on her skin.

"I just have wide hips. Mum always said I had her child-bearing hips," she related idly, and then bit her lip, wondering if it was appropriate to bring up 'child-bearing hips' right now. Probably not.

"Huh," Draco said thoughtfully, and Hermione would have given a million galleons to find out what he was thinking right then. He crawled up the bed, half on top of her, and she felt him – _it_ – hard against her leg as he scrambled limply over her and flopped onto the bed next to her. She realised belatedly that she had…had an orgasm, and he hadn't, not yet, anyway. Her palms went clammy with nerves as she gnawed at her lip. If he had done it for her…then she should…and she wanted to, Hermione realised. She wanted to see _it_, touch it – _suck_ it. Make Draco feel the way he had made her feel. "You," she said stupidly, and Draco raised an eyebrow, "Hmm?"

"_You_. You did all, um, that for me, and I haven't…" Hermione's hand went to his cock, sticking out hard inside his jockeys, and Draco smirked faintly, tucking his hand behind his head, "Ah. That's true. Maybe you shouldget to that, then." He suggested archly and Hermione's heart thrummed like a frightened bird's wings. She didn't know quite how to start. She was so used to being good at everything, and right now everything was new and slightly terrifying and she was discovering that reading things in books didn't always stack up to firsthand experience. Hermione sat up, his shirt falling open further but she didn't think about it, except for noticing how it felt when her nipples brushed against the fabric. She indented her lower lip with her teeth, nibbling nervously as she pulled his jockeys down, and he lifted his hips slightly.

_It_ bobbed up as soon as it was free, Draco's jockey shorts around his knees and he wriggled them further down his legs and toed them off and his cock bobbed every time he moved. Hermione's eyes fixed on it. She had seen them before – penises, she thought, and her cheeks were flaming – in photos in her _research_ books, but not erect. It was flushed slightly darker than the rest of him, and it _looked_ big to her but she compared it in her mind to the statistics she knew and decided it was probably not much bigger than average. But if this was what slightly-bigger-than-average looked like in real life, Hermione was happy. And slightly worried about sex, thinking about how on earth it was supposed to fit. _If a baby can come out of there, then _that_ will fit,_ she told herself matter-of-factly and unromantically, but wasn't entirely reassured. It looked so…thick. And his balls were right there, nestled beneath _it_, soft and squishy, the skin crinkled, looking somehow alien, but not unappealing. Just…funny.

Draco cleared his throat meaningfully, and Hermione's eyes, wide and frightened, darted up to meet his. "You just going to look at it?" he asked, lips twitching with amusement, and Hermione scowled at him. Took a deep breath and told herself she had touched it before – this was exactly the same, except that they were both naked, and on her bed, and not in a frenzy of snogging. She shrugged off his shirt and knelt between his legs, all while he watched her with amused eyes. She reached out tentatively and wrapped her fingers around it, gently moving her hand up and down. Draco made a tiny sound of pleasure and his eyes slid half-shut – but he watched her from beneath his lashes, and she flushed. He wasn't circumcised, she didn't _think_, and the skin of his cock moved easily with her tight grip, and Hermione squeezed and twisted and watched with a sense of triumph as Draco moaned and his eyes fluttered shut, hand gripping the sheet.

Hermione stared at _it_, hand moving up and down automatically, and wondered how to suck it. What she was supposed to do. She bent her head and then chickened out, licking her lips and staring up at Draco, "I've never…" He groaned with what sounded like frustration and need. "It's not difficult, Hermione. Just…suck it for Merlin's sake." So she did, nervousness threading through her. She tried to remember the diagrams and techniques she'd discovered in books she'd read sitting in a private corner of a Muggle library – too embarrassed to get the books out, too worried her parents might find them and make _assumptions_. And now they seemed to be good techniques, he seemed to like it. She wasn't failing terribly.

Hermione's hand and mouth moved in unison; lips wrapped around the head of his cock, tongue swirling over it, sucking and licking while her hand moved up and down the shaft. Draco gasped as Hermione tried to take the whole length into her mouth and swallowed convulsively around it, trying not to gag, and his breath grew shallower, his hand knotting in her hair. A shudder ran through Hermione like one of the aftershocks of her orgasm as Draco moaned and his hand tightened painfully on her hair. _She_ was making him feel like that. His eyes were shut and his lips were parted, a little crinkle between his dark brows, his whole body tensed.

She smiled and licked him from base to tip in one sweep and he inhaled sharply, hand jerking and pulling at her hair and Hermione winced. "Fuck. Sorry." Draco let the tangled strands go. "Now _I'm_ doing it." He sounded breathy and strained and bliss crossed his face as Hermione swirled her tongue around the head of his cock, and then sucked on it hard, letting it go with a soft popping sound. "_Fuck_." His hand clenched into a fist and his eyes squeezed shut again. It was easy to find out what he liked; she tried everything she had read about, everything she thought of, and his reactions told her whether to keep doing it or not. It was…fun. Hermione liked provoking low, strained whimpers from his lips, liked the way she could make him think of nothing but how her mouth and her hand felt, toying with him. She felt _powerful_.

Hermione liked that feeling a great deal. So much so that it almost worried her. Hermione Granger, the power-hungry maniac?

It didn't take Draco long. Hermione hadn't expected it to, after the weeks she had spent snogging his brains out and working him up. _Both_ of them – it hadn't taken her long either, although that could have just been his skill. But a few minutes of Hermione's experimental ministrations, and Draco breathing was shallow and quick; his fist white-knuckled, jaw a tense line and forehead furrowed, teeth crushing his lip. "Oh fuck…oh fuck I'm going to –" Draco ground the words out disjointedly and then _it_ was pulsing in Hermione's hand, and she almost pulled her mouth away when he came and warm wetness hit her tongue, mingling with her saliva. Faintly salty and almost…sticky, and Hermione swallowed without even thinking about it, hand still moving on his cock as he let out a low shuddering whimper that was half a growl, and clamped his fingers in her hair again. And then he relaxed, like he was a puppet whose strings had been snapped, and Hermione's mouth was filled with her saliva and the rest of Draco's cum, her tongue still swirling messy over the head of his cock. She felt like she'd just gotten an 'O' on her Newts, ridiculously, absurdly proud of herself.

"_Fuck_…" Draco grated and flinched at Hermione's continued touch, using his hand wrapped in her hair to jerk her head up from his cock and she squeaked with pain and surprise, and then he pulled her by her bloody _hair_ up his body and his grey eyes were dilated as he glared at her, "Swallow," he said roughly and Hermione's stomach flipped on her. She was wet again suddenly, and if he'd rolled her over and fucked her, she would have been in heaven. Oh _god_ he was so fucking irritatingly attractive when he did that arrogant Malfoy act while they were doing _things_. She tried to scowl and failed, did as he said, and stuck her tongue out like proof, grinning nervously at his quicksilver eyes. "Oh _fuck_," Draco breathed, dragging her head down to his and crushing their mouths together rough and hard. His tongue swept over hers and she knew it still had to taste of his cum but Draco didn't seem to care, his hurt arm wrapping around her waist and his hand letting her hair go and clutching her bum, kneading it firmly.

Hermione wanted him to just do it. Do her. She wanted to have sex with Draco Malfoy. His fingers trailed the curve of her bum, dipping around to her…and a frenzied knock came at the door. "_Shit_," Draco hissed, dragging his mouth from hers with a harsh frustrated breath. His fingers pulled away and Hermione whimpered, dropping her lips against his chest and internally cursing whoever it was that had thought to interrupt them _now_. There had better be a damn good reason. She lifted up her head and yelled, "What?" and the wards that were designed to only let out sound that was _allowed_ out seemed to operate all right, because Harry's voice came through the door. "Hermione! Hermione, I need to talk to you!" Hermione gritted her jaw and yelled back, "About what? I'm a bit busy, Harry."

"Is _he _still in there with you?" Harry asked, voice sounding muffled like he had put his face closer to the door, and Draco's eyes sparked frosty. Hermione clapped her hand over his mouth, and he glared daggers at her, grabbing her wrist and yanking her hand away, "What do you fucking want, Potter? We're in the middle of something."

"I want to talk to Hermione. Now."

"You might want to wait for her to put some clothes on, first." Draco smirked at the spluttering sounds on the other side of the door, and Hermione thumped him, trying to look annoyed. It was difficult when he was so… All traces of the strain and abject misery from earlier had vanished, and Draco's eyes sparked with glee as he listened to Harry's incoherent ranting, his hand returning to her bum, absentmindedly caressing it. He looked happy. "I'll talk to you later, Harry," Hermione called, struggling to keep a laugh out of her voice. "Hermione!" Harry protested, and Draco kissed Hermione's ear and grinned, "She said piss off, Potter. So why don't you do as you're told, and toddle off like a good little Golden Boy?"

"Oh _fuck you_, Malfoy," Harry spat through the door indignantly, but a moment later there was silence. He had achieved what Hermione presumed he had wanted to do though; Harry's voice had brought reality crashing back in. Harry had wrenched Hermione back into the real world. And she realised she was stark naked, lolling over Draco, and the scars on her chest and abdomen were pressed against his bare skin, one of the ones on her arm clearly visible. And the memories intruded, sour and stale and even worse when contrasted with how Hermione had just been feeling. So good and Harry, damn him, had ripped that away too soon. She scrambled off Draco without a word, hunting madly for his shirt, snatching it up and wrapping it around her, falling back against the wall and meeting Draco's confused eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked, reaching his hand out toward her, and Hermione buried her head in her hands. She just needed a moment. Just needed a moment to calm down. She searched for words, and finally mumbled, "Memories," into her hands, and Draco made an understanding sound. "I know all about those," he said with a heavy sigh, and then the bed shifted and his body was warm next to hers, his arm around her. Hermione laid her head on his chest. "Sometimes I wish I could get someone to _Obliviate _me," she admitted quietly, listening to Draco's steady breathing, feeling his chest rise and fall under her cheek. It was soothing. "Why don't you?" Draco asked curiously, and Hermione smiled sadly to herself, shrugged. She wasn't entirely sure why. "It seems too much like cheating," she said after a moment, and that felt like the truth. "Why don't _you_?" she asked a moment later, and Draco snorted, "Who would do it for me, even if I wanted to?"

"Let's say _I_ would do it for you – would you have it done?"

Draco shook his head, "No, it wouldn't be right. I deserve the memories I have. Every single one." Hermione twisted her fingers through his, squeezing. "I love you," she said muffled but fierce into Draco's chest, and there was a moment's silence. Draco pressed a hard kiss on Hermione's head, and said, "I love you too," his voice hoarse and quiet. Hermione squashed herself closer to him and smiled dreamily. They might not be snogging each other's brains out anymore, but there was a lovely sort of peace to this. Hermione felt like his heartbeat could lull her off to sleep, and his thumb stroked warm over the back of her hand, his splinted arm heavy around her waist and his shirt wrapping her up like a cocoon, with her knees drawn up to her chest. Hermione's eyelids felt heavy, and she yawned jaw-crackingly.

"If Harry comes back, you can be as rude to him as you like," Hermione said through her yawn and she felt Draco laugh shortly. "Don't worry, I will be."

"Just don't wake me up." She nuzzled closer, still feeling sad, but tempered by the pleasure she had just experienced; by Draco's arm around her and his chest warm on her cheek. "Can I use your wand, then? It'd be quieter than yelling insults through the door." He was hopeful and teasing, and Hermione smiled, a quick, sleepy flash. "No."

"Damn," Draco swore lightly, and kissed her temple, fingers seeking out hers. He was so warm. She forgot all about the memories.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ So, what did you think? Good smut? ::looks hopeful::

I felt like this would be a big, nerve-racking kind of experience for Hermione – she takes things seriously, and so something like this would be a major deal. She does, however, really, really want to do it all. She's also got all these memories that associate Draco with negative things in her mind, and even if she knows things are different now, subconsciously, I think it would be difficult for her to _instinctively_ trust him. Or something. It's late and I may just be talking shit :D

Anyway, leave me a comment to tell me what you thought of the smutty goodness in this chapter. I think smut can be a very difficult thing to write well. It can FAIL so easily. I always want my smut to come off as _realistic_, detailed, sometimes humorous and awkward (because it's like that in real life sometimes and that's part of the charm – like pulling people's hair too hard, or thinking balls look hilarious), and most of all, _hot_. Did I succeed?

Oh, also, I put the bit about hymens in because _damn_, do some fic writers get it _wrong_, and it irritates the living shit out of me. I, like Hermione, am not about to go into a lecture on the hymen right now, but go Wiki it if you're curious, and learn all about imperforate ones, and missing ones, and elasticity, and hormones, and how they work and such, and…well, it's all very fascinating if you're interested in that sort of thing.

_Epsilon92_: Thank you! Useless FYI, I have since found out that in the real-life story, Alec my several-Greats Uncle was attached to the NZ medical corps, captured twice by the enemy, and the woman's name was Maria, and she was struck _in the face_ by a piece of shrapnel and died in his arms almost instantly :( :( :( P.S. He _is_ a lovely firstborn…most of the time. I think I'm glad no one else wants him :p

_DTOXIFIEDdreamer_: Thank you! So glad you weren't put off by the thought of a one-handed Draco! I get that maimed!Draco isn't exactly attractive, and I'm glad you persevered with the story and ended up getting used to maimed!Draco. I think having him injured like this makes all sorts of fun, humiliating things possible, that aren't otherwise. I love tearing my characters down, and building them back up, and then tearing them down again… Oh, that shirt-buttoning scene is one of my definite favourites :) And I'm overjoyed you like Cho as a match for Ron! I think Cho is just _perfect_ for Ron myself – she has all the traits that Ron likes in Hermione, and none of the ones that irritate him. And rather than mothering him, like Hermione does, Cho would force Ron to prove himself and be a grown up, I think. Ron/Cho is totally my head canon now :p And I did have more to say, but it all got driven out of my head by OH MY GOD DRACO WATCHING STAR WARS! I love you! You are so completely right – _this must happen_. It's just absolute perfection.

Everyone else, thank you for reviewing, and if I _can_ PM you to thank you/answer any questions you had etc, I will as soon as I get my arse into gear!

Next chapter, we get back into the main plot a little bit. We can't just have smut forever, unfortunately.

Please review :)


	27. The Rains Come

_Author's Note:_ I'm still alive, wonderful readers, if you were wondering where I'd gone. Just busy, busy, and not half as much time for writing as I used to have. But I'm still scribbling away whenever I get the chance, as this mammoth chapter proves :p

Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, especially my awesome faithful reviewers – you know who you all are – you are all amazing, and I _so_ appreciate your feedback.

This chapter is…heavy, IMO anyway. But I feel it's a natural and necessary progression of last chapter. You can't tell someone you fed small children to Greyback without getting some sort of reaction, once your confessions have had time to sink into the other person's brain… Chapter title is from "_After the Storm_" by Mumford and Sons.

I was so eager to just get this posted, I did not proofread it properly. Bad me. Please forgive any mistakes!

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**The Rains Come**_

Draco lay curled around Hermione in her bed, under the blankets, staring at the window, his hand resting on the swell of her naked hip. He didn't know how long they had lain together in silence, but the sky outside was darkening; towering thunderheads off in the distance, the wind blustering the branches of the tree outside the window so that the smaller twigs scraped softly on the glass. Hermione was silent and still, her breathing even and deep, and if Draco hadn't seen her sleep before, he would think she was deep in restful sleep. But seeing as so far she hadn't kicked him, snored and snuffled noisily, burrowed her head under the pillow, or stolen the blankets, Draco suspected she was still awake. Just very still, and very quiet.

It was getting late; they should go back downstairs before the others got any more suspicious than they already were. Draco had been thinking that for what felt like the last hour, but he still hadn't said anything. He didn't want to disturb Hermione. And she was so comfortable to spoon up against, save her hair, which kept somehow finding its way into his mouth even with his lips clamped shut. Draco fished another few stray strands out, and sighed. He shifted up on one elbow and stared down at Hermione, on her side in a ball with her hair obscuring her face. Draco brushed it gently away and her weary brown eyes shifted to his face, pink tongue wetting full lips.

"I thought you were asleep," he said inanely, just for something to say, and she shook her head slightly. "No you didn't." Draco smirked; she was finally beginning to read him accurately. A week ago Hermione would have taken his statement at face value – now she knew better. "No, I didn't. What have you been doing?" Hermione shrugged a bare shoulder, and Draco traced his fingers over the smooth, creamy skin. "Just thinking," a tiny smile crept over her lips, "I know. I think too much."

"Only when it comes to sex, and other related areas. Feel free to over-think everything else, if that's what gets you off," Draco smirked, and kissed her shoulder, skin warm on his lips. "Hmm," was all she said, eyes shifting to stare up, clearly not seeing the plain white ceiling, but something far away. She didn't look at all like the Hermione Granger Draco had known at school. Superficially she was the same, if nearly a year older now – but everything that _really_ mattered was different. Those warm firewhiskey brown eyes were harder and always stained around with shadows, and her mouth had tiny lines of strain and stress around it, etched into her skin. She was more angular; too thin. She always looked tired. They all did to some extent, these days. The weight of the war, bearing down on them – and right now Hermione looked worn and weary, older than the nearly nineteen she was. Beaten. Exhausted. _Sad_.

"Knut for your thoughts?" Draco asked, stroking his fingers through Hermione's hair where it tangled over the pillow. "You don't have a knut to your name, Draco." Hermione spoke tightly, an edge in her voice, and Draco flattened his lips together. "All right." He lay back, tucking his hand behind his head. If she didn't want to talk, pressing the issue wouldn't help. He waited, silent, staring at the ceiling. And sure enough, after a long silence Hermione said, "Fine. I was thinking about how every damn time I see – or don't even _see_, just every time I'm _aware_ of the scars your Aunt gave me, it takes me right back." She sounded angry now, and Draco sat up with a quiet sigh, dragging the blanket up around his hips and shoving his hair off his face. _Your Aunt_.

"I'm sorry," he said awkwardly, and Hermione didn't answer, just stretched out her arms and examined the scars there, and the look on her face…Draco couldn't bear it. He wondered if there was any way he could have spared her, back then – if maybe there could have been a way to convince Aunt Bella not to cut Hermione, but to just use the Cruciatus on her. Fuck, what an incredibly bleak thought. _Just_ _the Cruciatus_, like that was a good thing. It didn't make Draco feel any better to know that he would have only gotten himself hurt if he'd tried to dissuade Aunt Bella from marking _the mudblood_ with one of her precious knives. It didn't help Hermione. It didn't take that deep sadness out of her eyes.

"The Healers tried to get rid of the scars – when I finally got to see a Healer. But they said it was too late; if I'd seen them right away they _might_ have been able to use a counter-curse to heal them, but…it was too late." Hermione looked from her arms to Draco, and he didn't know what she wanted to hear. "I'm sorry," he said again and Hermione nodded shortly, wrapped her arms around her knees, hiding the scars. "It's not even about the way they look, not really. They're just scars – ugly ones, yes. But I can't complain about that. So many people have been hurt worse during the war. It's about the _memory_ they bring back. I can't get away from it. It's always there. And it _shouldn't_ be. I should be able to…do things…with you without remembering _that_." She smiled bitterly, glancing up at him, "It's not exactly conducive to romance; remembering _that_ when we're…" Draco winced and wondered how Hermione remembered that day in her mind. What he looked like in her memories; if Hermione looked back and despised and hated who Draco was back then just as much now as she ever had, or if knowing him _now_ had changed how she saw him in her memory.

"No. I imagine not." It felt hard to speak; Draco's chest felt suddenly tight and his whole body tense, and there was a lump in his throat, and…he didn't want to be talking about this. "And it's not fair, but…" He shrugged helplessly, "It's life. Nothing's fair, Hermione. It's what you make of it. I should know." He couldn't help adding the last part, his eyes flicking to the stump at the end of his arm. "And what am I supposed to make of it, Draco? Your Aunt _tortured_ me – you were there, you know. You – you were there." Hermione faltered to a stop, picking at her nails with little jerky motions, head ducked so her hair fell over her face. Draco didn't know why Hermione was bringing it up _now_. After so long. After everything else that had happened since then, why was she bringing it up now, after what they had just _done_? He would have thought she would be happy, contented, not…this.

Draco looked at Hermione, trying to make his features still and emotionless, but he felt desperate and hollow. He couldn't do this. He didn't want to do this. He dreamed about that day sometimes; he didn't want to hear Hermione relive it in that quiet, brittle voice that trembled with anger at the edges. He woke up in a cold sweat when he had those dreams; gasping, his guilt sharp as a blade in his gut.

Because as much as Draco told himself – and Hermione seemed to believe – that he couldn't have saved her that day, he _could_ have. All he would have needed to do that day was grab Hermione and dis-apparate with her when the Snatchers had first brought her, Potter and Weasley to the Manor. But he hadn't, of course. Why would he have? She had just been another mudblood, albeit one Draco knew.

It had only been when Hermione had started screaming that Draco had _realised_.

Draco pressed his lips together and took a deep breath. Hermione had never talked to him about that day, not properly. And she could have. Could have flung it in his face every minute of every day, and it would have been…not justifiable, but understandable. He couldn't be angry with her for bringing it up, no matter how much he wanted to just forget about it. Draco took a deep breath. "Do you want to talk about it?" His mouth felt dry. "I don't know. Yes? No? I – I've never talked about it to anyone before," she admitted, and Draco couldn't help being surprised. He would have thought that Hermione – one of the Golden Trio – with all her friends and allies, would have had no shortage of support. "Why not?" he asked, leaning back against the headboard and staring at her bowed head.

"I didn't want to tell them the details. They saw the state I was in when we escaped. What more was there to say?" She was angry and Draco bristled. He was doing his best here; he wasn't exactly used to being comforting. He didn't know what to say, or what to do. He didn't know how to make her feel better. "It might have helped you…move past it," he tried uncertainly, and her eyes flew to him, the warm brown hard and pined. Angry disbelief on her face.

"_How?_"

"I don't _know_, Hermione. But aren't you supposed to talk about those sorts of things? Isn't sharing your feelings supposed to help, instead of keeping them all bottled up inside? Facilitate the fucking healing process or some shit like that?" He sounded sarcastic, and he didn't mean to, but it just came out that way. Arrogant and nasty. _Shit_, he hated talking about this sort of thing. Malfoys didn't _do_ feelings – at least not aloud and in the presence of others. And a lifelong habit was hard to break. Draco felt like a coiled spring, the blissful relaxation he had been luxuriating in just moments ago gone without a trace.

"Did _you_ talk to anyone?" Hermione shot back, glaring at him.

"_I had no one_, Hermione. You had Potter and Weasley and everyone else, probably falling all over each other to try to make you feel better. I didn't have anyone to talk to. The only people around me were the ones who were _hurting_ me." He ground it out, suddenly angry with Hermione. So she had bad memories and a few scars; he had lost his fucking _hand_. She blanched as he snarled at her, an apology stammering from her lips. "I'm sorry, I didn't think…"

"Then do. Please, _do_ think. You're not the only one in this room who's been tortured," Draco said caustically, and Hermione flinched and nodded hurriedly, "I know. I know, I just –"

"That day, you got your scars – and I got my fingers torn off and fed to the Dark Lord's fucking _pet snake_. Remember me telling you about that?" He sounded like a prick, and he didn't care, because he was _right_.

"You could have left, you could have defected _then_, when we escaped, it –"

"…But do you see _me _wallowing in self-pity? No, I'm –"

"…Except you made your choice! You knew the risks of being a Death –"

"Seriously? Fucking _seriously_, Hermione? I didn't know _shit_ and you know that, I –"

"…and you could have run way earlier! You could have gone to Dumbledore, when –"

"…I was fucking brought up to believe it, I was just a kid! I –"

"…I didn't join some evil cult where it's perfectly well known that the leader tortures and kills those who disappoint him, _you_ did!"

"I didn't have any choice!"

"_Yes you did!_"

"_I didn't know that! I was just a fucking kid! I was fucking scared, all right?_" Draco was shouting, off the bed and dragging the sheet with him, the folds of apricot cotton draped precariously around his hips as he glared at her. His hair fell into his eyes and he tried fruitlessly to blow it out with a sharp puff of breath, chest heaving from their yelling. He hoped Hermione had remembered to bloody well soundproof the room, or they'd be giving the whole Order a show. Although at this point he didn't give a fuck. Hermione was red-faced and furious, kneeling up on the bed with the blanket clutched to her chest, yelling at the top of her bloody lungs,

"You put yourself in a situation where you could get hurt! I was fucking _captured_! I didn't get a choice!"

Draco snapped his mouth shut. Stared at her, rage boiling icy beneath his skin. He didn't yell; he ground the words out, voice dangerously low and icy, "You think I _chose_ to have my father cut off my hand? _You think I chose that, Hermione?_"

Hermione froze and shrank back a little. "No." Her voice was suddenly tiny. "No. You didn't of course you didn't." She was blinking back tears, and Draco glared daggers at her, "You can't _say_ shit like that to me, Hermione. You just _can't_. You said just a few hours ago that it didn't matter that much to you, and then you throw it in my face! How are we supposed to…how is _this_," he waved erratically between the two of them, "Supposed to work, if you do _this_?"

"I just… I haven't thought about it in weeks. And then it all hit me, and…and…I'm sorry." Tears trickled down Hermione's blotchy cheeks, and Draco was stonyhearted. She couldn't just say all _that_ and then apologise, and think it could fix everything she had said. Draco didn't care that she was sorry. He didn't care. He didn't… "That's not my fucking problem. I'm not the one who fucking tortured you. So don't take it out on _me_." Draco shook his head hard, rejecting her apology, sick of everything. Sick of the way the damned war tainted everything he had, ripped it away from him, or marred it. Even this. Hadn't they tried hard enough? He had known it wouldn't be easy, him and Hermione, but did it have to be this fucking _hard_? They had just been so _happy_. It had been _good_.

"But you were there. You were there and you didn't do anything, and I know…I know you did what you could," Hermione said and Draco's head whispered, _no you didn't_ at him, and he grimaced.

"But I can't help remembering it. Seeing you like that. The way you were then. The way I begged you…" Her chin trembled and she slumped back on the bed, running her hands through her hair. Shit, Draco remembered that too. Clear as if it were yesterday.

"And your Aunt told you to – well we both know what she _wanted_ you to do. And you just walked up to me, and said, 'What do you want?'" Hermione mimicked how Draco had sounded perfectly; that reluctant low murmur, and he flushed hot with shame.

"You were just _Granger_ then. What can I say? You weren't anything to me… _Now_, now I'd _fucking die_ if it would keep you from going through something like that again, but back then… What do you want me to say, Hermione?"

"I wouldn't want you to die for me, Draco. Wounds heal," she said quietly, glancing at her scars and amending it, "well, _most_ wounds heal. Death doesn't."

"What do you _want_?" Draco half-moaned, fist clenching the sheet so hard that the muscles trembled, staring at Hermione with his head canted to one side, waiting for her to come up with a good fucking answer. Why was she _doing_ this? She drew the blanket up higher around her, and shrugged, mouth a pained twist and eyes looking not at him, but past him. "I guess I wanted to talk about it. No one was there but _you_; no one knows exactly what happened but _you_. I suppose…it was just in my head, and I couldn't stop thinking about it, and I thought maybe if I talked to you it might…help."

"Don't fucking lie to me, Hermione." She was talking shit. If she had wanted to talk constructively, she wouldn't have started by being so defensive, so angry. She wouldn't have lashed out at Draco when he tried to help the best he could.

"I'm not lying! I just wanted to…I'm sick of keeping it all inside! Of not having anyone to talk to! And I thought I was getting better. I thought I was getting past it. I haven't had nightmares in over a month; I haven't been thinking about it, I've been…better. And then you _looked_ at me before and I _remembered_." She looked up at Draco, pleading and angry and _lost_. "But I'm not lying." Tears trickled her cheeks and Draco swore under his breath, angry at her, angry at himself – angry at fucking _everything_. "You fucking well are! You're angry with me, with what I did to you, what I _did_ in fucking general, and you're taking it out on me. _That's _what this is about! If you just wanted to talk you would have done it before now!" He snapped back, looking around the room for his clothes, his pulse racing and his breath quick and rasping.

It was because of what he'd said earlier. Draco _knew_ it. He should never have told Hermione the – the things he'd done. That was what this was about – it had to be. His fucking confession. He should have kept his mouth shut. Draco knew Hermione wanted to support him despite what he had done – when she said she loved him anyway, she meant it. He could see that in her eyes. But it mattered more to her than she had admitted. She had probably been dwelling on it, while Draco had been drowsily soaking up Hermione's warmth, the comfort of her presence. And she had been thinking about what he'd told her. She had said it didn't matter that much, but once the acts he had committed had sunk into her brain, it had obviously mattered more than she had thought it would. Draco couldn't really blame her for that.

It couldn't be easy to hear about all the awful acts the person you loved had committed. Added to the memories of that day in the Manor. Of years of minor torments at school. He swore and let the sheet around his hips drop, started jerking on his jockeys, yanking up his jeans. She was silent, mouth open as if she were about to speak, but nothing came out. He glared at her as he fiddled with the button on his jeans, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, all right. But I can't change the fucking past. Believe me, I wish I could, but I _can't_. And I don't know what you want me to _say_, what you expect me to _do_."

"I –"

"And I refuse to take your blame on top of the guilt I already get to live with every bloody day. I might deserve it – Merlin, I probably do. But you _said_ it was all in the past. _You_ said it. _You _said it didn't matter. You can't just take that back whenever you feel bad. You can't use it to make me feel like shit every time you're feeling bad." If she wanted support, if she actually wanted someone to talk to, if she wanted…well, damn near _anything_, Draco would do his best. But he wasn't going to let her beat him down like this. He wasn't going to be with a person who was going to lash out at him after she had said she wouldn't. "So make up your fucking mind, Hermione."

Hermione stared at him, stunned, and then anger flared and vanished on her face. "I begged you," she said in a quiet voice. "I begged you to kill me. Do you remember?" He flinched and looked away from her. "I thought everything was over. I hated you, and yet I was so desperate I _begged_ you to help me." She huddled in on herself, obviously reliving the moments and Draco bit his tongue, tried not to let the brittle pain in her voice worm its way into him. He failed as she went on, glancing up at him, smudging the tears from her eyes with the back of one hand.

"You just stood there. I could tell you were…that you wanted it to stop. That you… But _you_ _just stood there_. And I pleaded with you. I just wanted it to stop. I would have done anything for it to stop. And you stood there in your perfect fucking clothes, with your perfect bloody hair, and your perfect face, and I lay there covered in blood and snot and…" Hermione wiped away tears and sniffed, continuing with her gaze fixed on Draco's, "And you didn't do _anything_. And I hated you more than I'd ever hated anyone in that moment. Because I could _see_ you knew it was wrong. You were disgusted by it. And you just stood there."

"How can you even stand to look at me?" he asked, calm and composed on the outside, although inside he felt like he was going to shiver apart at the seams. Anger and guilt were swelling in his bones until he felt like they were going to shatter from the pressure. She hesitated for a moment; wiping her face, drawing deep, shaky breaths. Calmed herself while Draco watched her, his features cold. And then she spoke, eyes down-turned.

"Because you were scared. I remember that too; you were terrified. Because you let me go. And you let me go, _knowing_ that you were going to be punished for it. Because you're sorry. Because sometimes I feel like you're the only person who understands me." She slid off the bed, and stood wrapped in a blanket a foot away from him, her hair wild around her head and firewhiskey eyes desolate on his. "Because I love you," she said softly, falling silent, teeth pinning her lower lip as she stared up at him. Her anger was gone. She'd obviously screamed it out of her system, Draco thought absently, and although he was glad she wasn't angry anymore, he couldn't help resenting her. What she had said had _consequences_.

Draco winced and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to be furious. Trying not to grab Hermione and _shake_ her until he got his own frustrations out. "I – I love you too," he answered tightly, because he did, even though his anger was still smouldering just beneath the surface. She stepped toward him and back of her hand, which held the blanket up around her, brushed lightly against his chest. He met her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said simply, and he stared at her expressionless. "I - I… I've kept a lot bottled up I guess, and…it's hard to…what you told me. I mean, it doesn't matter –" Her voice was suddenly fierce. "Honestly, it doesn't. Not enough to..." She vacillated a moment, eyes sliding away from his and then back again. "But it… And then the memories… It was all a bit much, I suppose." She almost looked embarrassed. Draco raised an eyebrow, "You _suppose_?"

"Well, it's not easy… I… What you did – I _want_ that not to change things between us, but… I guess it did."

Draco felt cold and numb. Dulled. "It did, huh?"

"…yes…maybe a little…"

"So what was the…sex – the blowjob and fucking _everything_ about, then? If what I told you changed things?"

"Because I didn't really think about it until afterwards. Until after we'd…"

"So what are you trying to say? It's all sunk in, and now the thought of being with me sickens you? Because if that's the case, just say so, Hermione." Draco felt like he was going to throw up. "I'll understand." He forced the words out, each one twisting a knife in his gut.

"No. I – I love you I just… I thought I could handle knowing. But…" Hermione took a step back and her eyes met Draco's, stark and desperate, and she asked, "Children? You gave _children_ to Greyback?" Her voice was hollow as she asked him to deny what she already knew was the truth, and shame burnt through Draco. Why did he have to be such a fucking _coward_? Why couldn't he have refused to do it? Defected sooner? Anything, so that he didn't have to say 'yes' and look into Hermione's eyes and see her reaction. But he hadn't, and so he did. Draco's lips twitched into a tight, bitter smile.

"Yes. Children," he said, hating himself.

Hermione hand went to her mouth, and a stifled whimper escaped through her fingers, and she looked away from him. She couldn't look at him. Draco felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. She couldn't stand to look at him. Just a few hours before they had…and now she couldn't even look at him. He stared down at Hermione helplessly, searching for ways to wipe the horrified sadness from her face but finding none. There was nothing he could do that would change the truth. There was nothing that would ever erase what he had done. "_Fuck_," burst from his lips, low and vehement and he wrenched his eyes away from her, stalking to the bed with stiff shoulders and clenched jaw and snatching up his shirt.

She watched him, hand still pressed hard against her mouth as Draco pulled on his shirt. He felt like what remained of his world had just crumbled away to nothing. The truth had sunk in, and she couldn't stand him anymore. Everything hurt. There wasn't anything _left_ without her. He had nothing. Draco fumbled with his shirt; he couldn't even do up his fucking _buttons_. "Fucking _bastard_," he swore under his breath, glaring down at his shirt. If he left Hermione's room like _this_, he would broadcast their relationship to everyone who saw him. It was ironic. Exposing a relationship he didn't think he even had anymore.

Hermione moved and Draco's head darted up, and she froze on the spot, and then held out a hand. "Let me…" He ground his teeth together. "No."

"I can do it for you. You don't have to –"

"_No._ I need to learn to do it myself, don't I?" He felt like his insides had been scooped out, leaving a gaping emptiness. A vacuum. She gave him a _look_, and lifted her chin; a typical Hermione Granger expression. Stubborn and determined and imbued with steel. "Don't be ridiculous, Draco." He stared at her but said nothing, his head tilted to one side, wordlessly questioning, and she stepped forward and grabbed his shirt. "I never said anything about…ending this." Her fingers were nimble and quick, and she stood close to him, the light blanket tucked around her like a sarong. Draco was reminded of the very first time she had ever done this, and a pang hit him hard. He didn't want it to be over. He really fucking didn't. Draco pushed a fall of hair back from Hermione's face, his thumb brushing over her cheek. Tucked it gently behind her ear.

"You said before…that I deserved you. Do you still think that?"

Hermione looked up at Draco, her hands awkwardly smoothing his shirt, running over his chest and his shoulders. "Yes. I still think that."

"But…" Draco thought of the way she had asked about Greyback, the horrified denial in the way she had asked, _children?_ How could she, still think he deserved to be with her knowing what he had done? Now his confessions had sunk in; now that she had thought about it – no doubt _pictured_ it in her mind while they lay quietly together. Fuck, he had been so obliviously contented. Hermione swallowed hard and stepped back from him, eyes slipping away from his face. "I know. But you didn't have a _proper_ choice. Everything I said before…earlier…before we argued. I meant it. It matters. It matters more than I thought it would, but it doesn't matter _that_ much. I still love you, Draco. It's just…harder than I thought. I can't stop…"

"Thinking about it," Draco finished for her. He had tried so hard to forget those memories. To erase them from his mind, so he didn't have to feel that constant self-loathing _guilt_. He had succeeded, for a while. Mostly. But now it all was fresh in his mind again, and he could forget. He _shouldn't_. "I know."

Hermione scrunched a corner of the blanket up in her hand, looking down at the floor and clearing her throat. "I still love you," she repeated softly, and Draco nodded. "I know." He knew he should tell her that he loved her too, but she already knew that he did. He didn't have to tell her, he told himself. But the truth was, he couldn't bring himself to say the words. He didn't know why. They stood opposite each other, silent, both looking at the floor, and Draco could have cut the tension in the room with a knife; the awkwardness palpable.

"I just need to…get used to it, I think," Hermione offered, a note of hopefulness in her muted words, and Draco nodded dully. "Of course you do. "

"Nothing has to change."

He fiddled with the end of his sleeve, the one that covered his truncated arm, "It already has."

"I – I always knew that you must have done some…" She gulped and her brow furrowed as she searched for words, "Terrible things," she said at last, and Draco winced and nodded.

"But it –" Hermione broke off as someone knocked on the door, and Draco jumped at the sound, gritted his teeth and spat out a curse. Hermione looked around frantically for her clothes, and then a voice came through the door, and Draco swore again. _Fucking_ _Potter_. Of course. Of course it was. Who else would it be?

# # #

"Um…Hermione?" Harry called tentatively, and Hermione huffed a furious, shaky breath through her nose and stalked over to the door, still wrapped in her blanket. "Harry?" She snapped and there was a brief silence, before Harry answered cautiously, "Yeah?" Hermione lifted her eyes heavenward and tried not to burst into angry, frustrated tears. She glanced over at Draco, who was glowering at the door as though he could set Harry alight through the wood. Of all the bloody moments to interrupt, it had to be _now_. If Harry had just waited five minutes… He seemed to be making a habit of this, and Hermione didn't appreciate it. She wanted to just _scream_. She felt like literally biting his head off, instead of verbally. She wondered idly if there was a spell that could make her lower jaw unhinge from the top, so she could swallow him whole. God, and she wasn't even dressed… Hermione frowned at the door, and then down at her blanket-wrapped self. Bugger it. Maybe _this _would convince Harry to stop making a nuisance of himself at incredibly inopportune times.

Hermione wrenched the door open and glared at Harry, blanket clutched around her precariously, and Harry's eyes went wide behind his glasses and he whirled around. She saw the tips of his ears turn red. "Um – I um…er…" He scratched the back of his head, even his neck flushing pink. Hermione took vicious pleasure in watching Harry realise – erroneously – that he had just interrupted Draco and Hermione having sex. "_What_, Harry? What was so important that you had to come and disturb us?" Hermione was livid with Harry, and tearing up thanks to her _conversation_ with Draco, and her voice shook.

"I – I. Sorry," Harry stammered. "I didn't mean to…" Hermione glared daggers at the back of his head, "What did you want?"

"Ron said you'd been shut up here too long, and he wanted to come up here and drag you down to the lounge… I thought maybe I'd better come up instead. Just in case…" Harry trailed off and coughed embarrassedly and his ears went redder.

"Oh." Well that was actually rather thoughtful of Harry. Still _incredibly_ badly timed, but thoughtful. "Yes. Ron coming up here would be…bad. Er, sorry I snapped at you. And you _can_ turn around, you know, Harry. You saw more of me than this when we were looking for Horcruxes." There was a choked sound from Draco, and Hermione shot him a look. "_I didn't mean it like that, you pervert._" She snarled indignantly, and he stiffened and bit his lip, grey eyes falling away from hers. "I'll go."

"Draco…" Hermione protested tiredly, but he shook his head. "No. We'll talk…later."

"But –"

"_Later._" Draco snapped brushing past Hermione, and she grabbed his elbow, jerked him to a stop in the doorway. He looked down at her, a strange muddle of disdain and rejection on his face, grey eyes wounded. She went up on tiptoes, fisting her hand in his hair and pulling his head down to hers, kissing his pale cheek. "I still love you. This doesn't change anything," she whispered fiercely in his ear, and he looked at her. "It's not always that simple," he said with quiet certainty, and she wanted to stomp her foot and yell that it _was_, it _was_ that simple. But Harry was right there and yelling wouldn't make Draco listen anyway, so Hermione just held her tongue and looked at him pleadingly.

Hermione wished she'd never said anything, but…well, she had, hadn't she? Regrets didn't undo rash words. Draco laid his hand against her cheek gently, and she pressed her face into his palm, gazing up at him. Their eyes connected and Draco opened his mouth to speak, and Hermione's heart jittered with rising hope and…

"I can go," Harry said uncomfortably, breaking the moment, and Hermione could have _shot_ him. "No. It's fine, Potter," Draco grated out, eyes still fixed on Hermione's. He seemed to come to a decision, because his eyes cleared a little, the tension around them softening, and he kissed Hermione lightly on the mouth. She leant into it, trying to make the brief kiss linger, but he pulled away too soon. "I love you," he said low in her ear and tried to smile at her – she thought. It looked more like a pained muscle spasm than a smile, really. And then with an annoyed parting glower for Harry, Draco disappeared down the hallway.

"What's…?" Harry looked after Draco confusedly, justifiably bewildered by what had just happened and Hermione and Draco's tension, and Hermione rolled her eyes. "_Nothing_, Harry."

"You _weren't_… Were you?" he asked astutely, and Hermione sighed and shook her head. "No. We weren't. Not that it's any of _your_ business."

"Oh thank bloody Merlin! I thought I'd walked in halfway through…you know." He grimaced and then frowned briefly at Hermione's undressed state, before looking away awkwardly, "But, why are you…if you weren't…?"

"My _god_. Do you actually _want_ to know, Harry? Or are you just being nosy automatically?" Hermione interrupted, and Harry blinked. "Good point." She turned around and started hunting for her clothes, and noticed Harry standing in the doorway, the door still wide open. "_Well?_ Come on then, close the door."

Harry shuffled just inside and shut the door and when Hermione twirled a finger, obediently turned around to face it, covering his eyes with one hand as Hermione dropped her blanket and pulled on her knickers. "Thanks for not letting Ron barge up here. I _really_ don't need that right now," she said tightly as she wriggled on her jeans. "You've been crying," Harry said and Hermione pressed her lips tightly together, hooking on her bra and choosing not to answer her friend. Honestly, why did he have to be so _nosy_? He was worse than the giggly girls back at Hogwarts. "I can tell. You sound all stuffy," Harry continued, and Hermione sighed. "Yes, fine, I was crying. But I don't see how –"

"What did Malfoy do?" Harry asked angrily, and Hermione snorted a startled, teary laugh. What did he _do_? God, what a horribly appropriate question. She kept seeing it in her mind's eye, kept imagining a crying, terrified child in Draco's arms, and him handing the child to Greyback, his pale features stony and emotionless. God. She couldn't get the image out of her head. "What did he do, Hermione?"

"Nothing," she snapped, and Harry turned around just as she was yanking her top over her head. "Then why are you so upset?"

"It's not anything he did _now_, it's what he did when…" she looked down, not sure whether telling Harry was a good idea. He already disliked Draco enough. She couldn't tell Harry what Draco had done. Harry would kill him. And that wasn't just a turn of phrase, either; Hermione was 99% certain that if Harry found out what Draco had done as a Death Eater, he would _Avada_ him on the spot. "When he was a Death Eater?" Harry asked on cue, and his eyes were cold. "Yes." Hermione admitted as she tied her hair back in a messy bun and stared at herself in the mirror. Blotchy skin, bloodshot eyes, and a horribly reddened nose; she looked awful.

"What? What did he do?" Harry bit the words out, his anger simmering clearly beneath the surface, and Hermione shook her head. "It doesn't matter."

"I think it does."

"No. No it _doesn't_. You don't need to know what he did. He's _sorry_ for what he did. He'd take it all back, if he could."

"And you believe that?"

Hermione gave Harry a scathing look. "I _know_ it."

"Then why are you upset? If you _forgive_ him?" Harry was nearly as scathing as Hermione, and she forced herself to be calm. "Because it's still…bad. It's hard to…to reconcile what he did with who he is now. I thought – I thought it wouldn't make any difference – knowing – but it did."

"Knowing whatever it is you know – and I can imagine; we've all heard the stories about what _they _do – how can you _be_ with him?" Harry asked, and he was quietly, desperately bewildered. No hint of anger or disgust in his voice, just utter confusion. "He never wanted to be a Death Eater. And he was never a very…good one. He never – there are a lot of things he didn't do, you know that."

"Yes, I know he never killed anyone, Hermione, but there are a lot of other terrible things a person can do."

"Draco _lost his hand _because he wouldn't do the things Voldemort demanded of his followers. He's not a monster."

"Monster enough that hearing what he did put you in this state, Hermione," Harry waved at Hermione – the tear-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes – and she glared at him and snatched up her wand, muttered a few glamour charms under her breath as she looked in the mirror, watching as her skin brightened and the red around her eyes disappeared. "It was just a shock, all right? Just a shock." She shoved her wand in her back pocket, still glaring at Harry. "God I wish I hadn't said anything. I've – I ruined everything… It was just so much to take in, and I needed to talk about it, and I got angry at him, and I couldn't believe what… But I love him." She tried to stem the tears that threatened, taking a deep slow breath, in and then out. "I love him and I've made him think that – that we – that I… Oh!" Hermione gasped in exasperation, sick and furious with herself. "Why can't I just learn to keep my mouth shut! I've always got to poke my nose in…talk everything to death… Why can't I leave well enough alone?"

Harry grinned ruefully and shrugged, "Ron and I have asked ourselves that very question, on an awful lot of occasions. You _do_ have a tendency to –"

"Harry! This is serious!"

"Malfoy's obviously stark raving mad about you, Hermione. I don't think you have to worry about anything. He's not going to up and leave you because you got pissy over whatever it was he did," Harry muttered reluctantly, and the fact that he didn't want to say the words made them more sincere. Hermione's spirits rose slightly; Harry wouldn't say that if it weren't true.

"You think…I need to talk to him, don't I? Or would that make it worse?"

"Don't ask _me_, Hermione! Not only am I the worst possible person to ask for relationship advice, I don't like the bastard and quite frankly I'd be overjoyed if you broke up." He added hastily, "Not that I want you to be _unhappy_, I just…"

"All right, Harry. Just…shush now. You aren't helping." Hermione cut him off and zipped up her fitted cardigan, examining at herself in the mirror. No, she didn't look like she'd just been crying and furious. Maybe a little pale, but there was only so much a minor glamour charm could do. "It's fine. I'll…figure it out. I just need some time to think."

"Don't shut yourself up here, come downstairs and hang out with us, Hermione," Harry pleaded. "It'll be like old times. Me, you, Ron…"

"Ginny and Cho?"

"Well, yes, but…" Harry looked confused at Hermione's reluctance.

"They keep going on about Krum," she elaborated, and he winced. "Ah. I see. That would be awkward."

"To say the least," Hermione agreed brusquely, "Anyway, I should really go find Draco and try to fix the mess I've made…"

"Malfoy really doesn't seem in the mood for talking. And you can always just tell Ginny and Cho to shut up about Krum."

"I _have_. They didn't listen."

"Please, Hermione?" Harry begged, and Hermione let out a resigned sigh. Harry was right that Draco didn't want to talk – he was too angry and hurt, and if she went after him now they'd probably just end up fighting again. Maybe it _would_ be best if she left talking to him until later; when they were guaranteed not to be interrupted because everyone was asleep, and Hermione had figured out what she actually wanted to say. It wouldn't do much good talking to him _now_, when she was still emotional and confused, and didn't know _how_ she felt. _I love you_ could only go so far when the rest of the conversation she was crying and furious and saying horrible things to him. And it could be nice to try to forget about everything else, and just be with her friends for a while…

"Go on then. Let's go," she said at last, gesturing at the door, and Harry beamed at her. "It'll be fun!"

"Hmm." Hermione was doubtful.

# # #

"Yes, seriously, Ginny! _Really!_ I write to him because he's a friend, not because I have some hidden longing for him!" Hermione snapped and crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at the auburn-haired girl, who sat next to a rather uncomfortable Harry on one of the overstuffed couches in the large lounge. A fire burnt, although it wasn't really cold enough to need one – it made the room lovely and cosy though. A cosiness Hermione might appreciate more if she wasn't – as she had expected – being badgered by Ginny, Cho, and now even _Ron_ about Krum.

What made it worse was that _Draco_ was in the room, tucked away in an armchair in the corner. He was ostensibly reading a book, but Hermione could feel his eyes on her, and more than once had glanced his way at the same time as he was looking up at her from The Earthsea Quartet. He had immediately looked away every time, but as soon as Hermione's attention was drawn back to her friends, she could _feel_ his eyes on her again.

"Oh _really_?"

"For Merlin's sake, Ginny! If I liked him, don't you think I'd say so? I've hardly any reason to hide a secret burning passion. I just…don't think that way about him."

"But he's so _handsome_. How could you _not_ be interested?" Cho sighed, and giggled when Ron jabbed her in the side with his elbow, "Oi. I'm right here you know!"

"Oh come off it, Ron. If you were a girl or swung that way, _you'd_ be chasing after him. Don't deny it!" Ginny teased her brother, and he made a disgusted face at her, "Whatever." Hermione saw her chance to change the subject and jumped at it, "So. Any ideas about Gringotts?" The atmosphere changed in a second, and a heavy silence fell over the little group clustered around the merrily burning fireplace. "No. Not yet," Harry said, his arm squeezing Ginny a little closer. "Anyone else?" Hermione looked around, and everyone shook their heads, faces solemn.

"I told Harry about my idea of maybe Muggle technology working." Cho piped up from the armchair where she sat on Ron's lap, rubbing her thigh to work the circulation in her shortened leg. She didn't seem at all self-conscious about the injury, only annoyed that it meant she couldn't fight anymore. Hermione wished she were as strong as Cho; nothing seemed to faze the other witch, whereas lately, Hermione seemed to go to pieces over anything and everything. "Electronics won't work reliably around magic. But there are some things we could look at using. Explosives, for instance. It's not that hard to get the ingredients for them and make them ourselves. But using explosives isn't really a plan, just one possible part of one, and –"

"We don't want to kill dozens of innocent beings, Harry!"

"Exactly," he agreed soberly, and they all fell silent again, thinking. Hermione's eyes drifted over to Draco, who was looking at her again. She saw misery in his eyes before he lowered them swiftly to his book again, shaking his head so his hair fell over his eyes, shoulders hunching as he buried his nose in his book. Hermione _knew_ he wasn't reading it. She didn't know why he persisted in pretending.

Every time she looked at him she thought _children_, and then fiercely, _but it wasn't his fault_. He had been raised to it, threatened, coerced, manipulated, tortured into doing what Voldemort wanted. She felt certain that Muggle society wouldn't hold him fully responsible for what he had done. There would be consequences, but Muggles would take into account his upbringing and his fear for his life. In a way, his situation was somewhat analogous to that of child soldiers; he couldn't be held responsible for, as a child and young adult, choosing to do whatever kept him alive.

But it still hurt, to look at him and know what he had done. Hermione couldn't deny it.

But she loved him.

And now they were in trapped in some sort of horrid limbo. Both hesitant and angry and confused. Loving each other but no longer sure if that was enough to get past, well, the past. Hermione didn't know where they stood with each other – they weren't _anything_ in particular at this moment. Floating in between states in this horrible limbo. Her mind drifted, lulled by the fire's warmth bathing her face, and the familiar, somehow comforting weight of Draco's surreptitious stare. Not a liquid, not a solid. Nothing... Wait – wait! A gas! Hermione bolted upright in the chair she was lolling in, face lighting up.

"Gas!" She cried, and a line of confused faces stared back at her. "Gringotts! Gas!" She burbled, too excited by her sudden _eureka _moment to speak calmly. Comprehension made a slow smile spread over Harry's face, until he was grinning from ear to ear. "Hermione, oh my god, that's brilliant!"

"Just knock everyone out –" Hermione said excitedly, and Harry continued on her train of thought, "And wake up and _Imperius_ the ones we need to get to the vault!" Hermione nodded excitedly, "It would take out nearly everyone at once, and no one would have to even get hurt, let alone killed!"

"Hermione, that's bloody _perfect_."

"Does one of you want to tell the rest of us what's going on?" Ginny demanded, and Harry beamed at her. "Knock out gas. Um, Sleeping…stuff. It's a vapour that makes everyone who breathes it fall unconscious. We can gas Gringotts!"

"Wouldn't we fall asleep too, Harry?" Ron asked dubiously, and Hermione shook her head, "No. You can get these things called _gas masks_, which prevent that from happening. Everyone in Gringotts who breathed the gas would drop like flies, and we could just waltz right in."

Harry's face fell. "How would we get it, though? We can hardly pop out to Sainsbury's and buy the stuff, can we?"

"Oh. Good point," Hermione muttered, berating herself for not thinking about that. Maybe – and it was a big _maybe_ – they could make it magically, but otherwise they'd have to break into an army base or the like before they could break into Gringotts. Why didn't she think of that?

Cho cleared her throat, "I don't know what this gas is, or where you get it even, but what about Kingsley? He worked with the Muggle Prime Minister, didn't he? Maybe he could convince the Muggle Minister to get some of this, er, gas, for us? Surely if anyone could get it, it'd be the Muggle Prime Minister…"

"That could work!" Hope filled Harry's voice again, and he grinned around at everyone, "That could actually bloody work! I'll talk to Kingsley as soon as he gets back from Malaysia." Ron frowned. "I hadn't heard he was leaving. Malaysia? What's he doing _there_?"

"Trying to convince a small group called _Penduduk Di Luar_ to join up with the Order."

"_Pen_ what?" Ron squinched his face up, and Hermione smiled with tolerant affection, "The Dwellers Outside, Ron. They're a small group who live in the _Taman Negara_, a national park at the _Titiwangsa _Mountains in Malaysia." When Ron just canted his head to one side, still confused, Hermione sighed and elaborated, "It's in Malaysia, obviously – near Thailand, I believe. And _Penduduk Di Luar_ are a group of witches and wizards who have chosen to live outside of both magical and Muggle communities as much as possible."

"How the bloody hell do you always know these things, Hermione?" Ron asked, shaking his head. Hermione smirked at him smugly. "Simple, Ronald. I looked it up when I heard Kingsley was going. I don't know _why_ Kingsley thinks he'll convince them though. What interest would such an insular community have in our war?" Hermione directed her question at Harry, but her eyes were on Draco. She couldn't drag her gaze away from him; he must have known she was watching him, because he hadn't looked up from The Earthsea Quartet yet – despite the fact that he hadn't turned a single page since she'd been steadily staring at him.

Harry coughed delicately, "Kingsley has a, ah, _history_, with a wizard who is currently in an influential position within _Penduduk Di Luar_. He's hoping old ties might convince them to at least hear him out." Ron looked startled and opened his mouth, and Hermione fixed him with a glare, forestalling any surprised, distasteful jokes he might have cracked at the revelation that it was a wizard and not a witch Kingsley had _history_ with. He wisely shut his mouth again, and Hermione turned her attention back to Harry, "He's hoping old affections will draw people into open wizarding war? A community whose very name declares their intent to stay separate? That's a small hope."

"That's all we have left now; small hopes," Harry replied tiredly.

"Viktor!" Ginny cried eagerly and waved past Hermione, toward the doorway as Harry finished speaking, and Hermione cringed. Of all the bloody times! She twisted around in her chair and saw Viktor filling the doorway, lifting a hand in bemused response to Ginny's rather overenthusiastic greeting. Hermione swore to herself as he crossed the lounge towards them, and her eyes darted back to Draco. No longer keeping up his pretence at reading, he was staring openly at Viktor, expression sullen.

"Hermione."

"Viktor." She gave the Durmstrang graduate a faux-bright smile, voice cheerfully, briskly friendly. "So…how are you settling in here?" Hermione asked, as Viktor simply stood there by her chair, utterly wordless. Did he have to be so ridiculously taciturn? "Well, thank you." He said, bearing military straight, determinedly ignoring Cho and Ginny's stifled amusement. "It is better than the last place we stayed," he added, and Hermione nodded inanely. "That's, um, good."

"I came to ask you if you wish to…talk," Viktor said, his meaning clear – he certainly didn't mean as friends, and there was a loud thump and Hermione jumped. Her – and everyone else's – attention flew to the source of the noise; Draco had thrown down his book. The others turned their gaze back to Viktor and Hermione; the drama of the moment, but Hermione's stayed on Draco. He hurried from the room, face held painfully emotionless and body rigid, glaring murderously at Viktor's back as he stalked past. Hermione tried and failed to catch his eye and smile at him reassuringly, and instead Viktor thought her smile was for him.

"You do?" He asked, and Hermione reluctantly gave Viktor her attention, wanting to run after Draco. "Oh. Oh, Viktor I'm flattered, but –"

"I understand," he interrupted, cheeks flushing slightly, and executed a slight bow, swivelled on his heel and left the room as quickly as Draco had, his posture just as rigid.

"Hermione, why in Merlin's name did you say _no_?" Ginny asked, and Hermione hissed, "I told you I wasn't interested in him! But you just wouldn't believe me! Well I'm not. As you can _see_. So stop pestering me about him, please!" The other witch glared, and her temper flared, and she napped at Hermione, and part of Hermione's brain watched helplessly as she and the others became embroiled in dissent that bordered on open arguing. She wanted to go after Draco. She was afraid to go after him. She still hadn't figured out her thoughts. She didn't know what to say. So she sat frozen, listening to herself snip at Ginny, and Ginny snark back, the two boys trying to quell the situation while Cho sat on Ron's lap looking extremely uncomfortable.

God, sometimes Hermione wished that everything else would just _bugger off_, and leave her and Draco in peace. Down in the cellar, with its soothing dim lighting, shut away from the outside world. Sitting on the end of his bed watching him eat, making idle conversation. Their small collection of Muggle games. Their arguments over minor things like whether a particular word was allowed in Scrabble. Where had that all gone? It was like everything had just shattered, and Hermione wanted it back, desperately. Ginny said something particularly biting, and Hermione couldn't' stop herself from retorting, and Harry interrupted, and then Hermione heard a door slam somewhere in the house and somehow she just _knew_ it was Draco.

# # #

The cold damp air hit Draco like a physical blow as he jerked the door to the back porch open. The steady rain had intensified throughout the evening and now it was a deluge, the wind ripping through his thin shirt and making him shiver. He slammed the door behind him viciously, and it rattled in its frame as he stalked over to the railing of the tiny porch, gripping it hard. His breath came fast and rasping, the sound drowned out by the rain drumming on the tin porch roof. Krum. Fucking _Krum_. He'd had to just sit there and bite his fucking tongue while Hermione's friends had tried to push her into Viktor fucking Krum's arms. And then the man himself had come into the lounge, and basically asked Hermione out. _Fuck_.

And Draco had just walked out. He didn't think Hermione would ever really give Krum a second look, even if they weren't together – or whatever they were. It wasn't that Draco felt threatened, because he didn't, really. It was the fact that, superficially at least, Krum would be better for Hermione than Draco was. He gripped the railing tighter, every bloody muscle rigid, biting his tongue hard, until he tasted a faint trace of blood. The porch roof leaked, and heavy drops of rain sploshed down on his shoulder. Hermione wouldn't feel like it was easier to keep a relationship with Krum secret from her friends. She wouldn't have to deal with memories of Krum tormenting her, or being present at her bloody _torture_. Wouldn't have to deal with the knowledge of the despicable acts Krum had committed, because he hadn't committed any. And if they won the war, Hermione wouldn't be tarred by the public for being in a relationship with an ex-Death Eater.

Krum was a far more logical choice, Draco admitted to himself. But logic wasn't fucking _love_. Wasn't happiness. He _refused_ to believe that she could be happy with that big, dumb oaf; the best she would ever achieve was a dreary state of not-unhappy. No, Hermione wouldn't be interested in Krum. But there were a lot of other options out there, and in the aftermath of their argument Draco was scared. Shit, he hated having to admit that, even silently in his own mind. He was scared he would lose Hermione to a more intelligent version of Krum; to the normality and easiness others could offer her, which Draco couldn't. Nothing would ever be easy if she was involved with him once the war was over. He might not be on the other side anymore, but he'd never be part of _this_ side either.

Draco was a bad fucking choice. No future beyond the war, no place that he fit in, nothing he could offer her. He wasn't the smart choice, and if he knew anything about Hermione at all, Draco knew she always tried to make the smart choice. He slammed his fist down on the railing and slammed his fist onto it; the impact bruised his hand, left the railing unscathed, and did nothing to relieve his feelings. Draco shook his hand, wincing at the throb, "_Fuck._" He glared out into the tiny back garden, which was lit in a shadowy rain-wet glow in the light of the street lamp that slipped past the house. The wind wailed soft and hollow, and the rain drip-drip-dripped on his shoulder and back through the leaky roof as he shivered in the cold.

Draco hated feeling powerless, and he couldn't be more powerless than he was these days. The one fucking good thing he had, the only hope he had for something _good_ in the future if they survived this fucking war, was Hermione. And now that was uncertain, hanging by a bloody thread. They loved each other, but Draco was a realist. His parents loved each other too, and look at them. Look at where they had ended up. He stood staring at the raindrops pummelling the overgrown garden and thinking about how it was all falling apart all over again, just when he had started rebuilding from the rubble.

It was freezing and the roof leaked, and the wind chilled him to the bone, but with Karkaroff and his people in the basement, Hermione, her friends and Krum in the lounge, there was no point in going inside. The Weasley twins had co-opted the dining room, and the upstairs of the house was only bedrooms he wasn't allowed in. He _could_ hole up in the kitchen, and Mrs Weasley always tried to be nice to him – except she would see he was miserable and want to know why. And she was _persistent_, as he had learnt; Draco had more than once sat at the kitchen table while Mrs Weasley shovelled baked goods into him and refilled his teacup constantly, plying him with questions the whole time. He wasn't in the bloody mood.

He'd been outside wallowing in his misery long enough that his fingers were going numb, when the door handle turned with a click and Draco tensed, refusing to turn around. Clenched his jaw so his teeth would stop chattering. If it was Hermione, he wasn't going to act desperate. Even if he was. The door opened and shut with a bang, footsteps on the old wooden boards; not Hermione's. Draco could tell. A mug of something was set by a feminine hand on the railing, steam coiling up from it. He looked up to see Nymphadora cradling another mug in both hands, blowing on the drink through pursed lips. His cup wafted the scent of hot chocolate, and his mouth watered.

"Cold out here." Nymphadora's hair looked a dark earthy green by the faint light of the street lamp, and she smiled at him from within the cosy puff of a winter jacket. He bit back a snarky retort about stating the obvious, and said simply, "yes." There was a moment's silence as Nymphadora sipped at her drink and stared out into the night, her hair whipping with the wind. "Thanks. For the drink," Draco said softly, the mug hot in his cold-numbed fingers. "Welcome," she said shortly and her smile spread a little. She sounded so cheerful, almost all the bloody time. It irritated Draco. She didn't say anymore, and he didn't know what to say, and frowned as the silence encroached again.

"I don't need your company, you know," he said stiffly when the silence grew too suffocating, and Nymphadora snorted softly. "I can see why she likes you so much." Her tone was dry and light, and Draco winced. That hit too close to home right now. What _did_ Hermione see in him? Why was she even _with_ him? Even if Hermione could accept the full knowledge of his past, Draco was still a snarky, rude bastard – even when he wasn't trying to be. "I just meant that it's cold out her," he amended quickly, "I'm sure you'd rather be inside with your husband, wouldn't you?"

Nymphadora just shrugged, sipping at her drink contemplatively.

"I don't need your pity. I don't need you to be nice just because you've decided I'm trustworthy. I'm perfectly well aware that you don't like me, even if you trust me – so _please_, don't feel obligated to…make an attempt to bond." Draco hid his face with his mug. It was hot chocolate. Shit, he'd said too much. Showed too much emotion.

"All right, I won't then," she just said cheerily, and made no move to go back inside. Draco glanced at her, annoyed and suspicious, and she just smiled, still looking out at the garden. He scowled and did the same, staring unseeing at the gnarled old tree that occupied the centre of the garden. He didn't like it when people reacted unpredictably. Anyone else would have gone back inside and left Draco alone, damnit. But she just had to stick around, perfectly serene and composed. Drinking her fucking chocolate contentedly.

"A bad argument, hmm?" Nymphadora said, and Draco stared at her, startled. "How did you…?"

"Oh, Remus and I have had more than our fair share of those. The ones that leave you wondering what the hell you've even got left after you've torn each other apart?" She must have seen recognition in Draco's eyes, because she smiled and nodded casually, totally at ease. "Yeah. _That_ sort of argument. We still have them occasionally; less often these days though."

Draco swallowed and said, "I told her what I'd done when I was a Death Eater." He gave Nymphadora a look as her face instantly hardened and turned cold, eyes glittering on his. She didn't look so friendly, anymore. He dropped his eyes. "Don't ask me what, because I won't tell you."

"I won't ask what you did. I know what Voldemort requires of his followers; I don't need to ask you. No wonder you argued. Although I can't completely blame you for whatever you may have done – I know you didn't have much of a choice."

It was a shock to hear something other than contempt from someone other than Hermione, even after Nymphadora's mild friendliness earlier, and Draco found himself blurting out, "I did though. I could have chosen not to."

"And died?"

Draco hesitated. "Yes. It would be better than having done what I did."

"Hermione really loves you, you know."

"Love isn't everything, when it all comes down to the line. Just look at my parents. Neither of them protected me, even though mother, at least, loved me." He smirked coldly, "Not so sure about father these days." He sighed, swirling the liquid in his cup around and around by tilting the mug in little circles, "I've done some evil fucking things, and I wouldn't be surprised if it's too much for Hermione to…deal with." Nymphadora gave him a surprisingly sympathetic look. "I don't think you're a _bad_ person, exactly, Draco. I know that –"

"I haven't been a good one."

"No. You haven't. Frankly, I'm amazed the two of you – that she gave you a chance…"

"I know," Draco said quietly.

"And I don't understand what she sees in you myself. Not after –"

"_Fuck_, I get it. Are you actively trying to make it worse?" Draco snapped and Nymphadora made an apologetic face at him. "Sorry. What I'm trying to say is that Hermione doesn't go into things lightly. Hermione is with you because she really, truly wants to be – because she doesn't make a decision without being as sure about it as humanly possible," adding in a low voice, "Uptight, if you ask me."

"Maybe this time she didn't follow her habit. Maybe I'm an anomaly. A mistake."

"Or maybe she feels being with you is the right choice, but she's still finding it hard sometimes. Times like when you confess your crimes to her," Nymphadora countered pointedly, and Draco felt simultaneously better and worse. "There's a lot of history between you two, Draco. And none of it is good."

"Should it have to be this hard for her? Is it right if it's so fucking hard?" Draco asked without even really realising he was speaking aloud, the questions burning holes in his brain. He just wanted to _know_. If talking to Nymphadora might help, then fuck; he'd do that. Bare his damned soul if it would give him some clarity.

"It wasn't easy for Remus and I. And sometimes it's still not. So it can be worth it, even when it's hard. But…you and her aren't Remus and I. Your situation is…different."

"Should she be with me?" Draco asked tightly, and Nymphadora raised an eyebrow. "Break up with her if you want, Draco, but tell her why, if you're doing it out of some noble self-sacrificial idea of 'doing what's best for her.' Give her a chance to decided what's best for her." She skewered him with a look, "If you break her heart because you want to try and play at being noble, I _will_ hex you with something well nasty, and then get Remus to _bite_ you."

Draco huffed a laugh. "Don't worry; I won't. I'm not that selfless."

There was another silence, and Nymphadora sighed and shivered as she finished the dregs of her drink, turning to go inside. Draco stood silent, waiting for her to speak before he did. She paused with her hand on the door handle, as if debating whether to speak or not.

"What?" He asked, without turning around.

"You know that if we win, you'll still have to stand trial, right?"

Draco flinched. He had been trying not to think about that. He didn't expect they'd win, and doubted even more that he'd be alive to see it, so he hadn't dwelt on what would happen then. His hand tightened around his half-empty mug, and his throat closed, words not getting out.

"You may be fighting on our side now, but there are still families out there who lost mothers and fathers, brothers, sisters, _children_, because of your actions. They need justice, whether or not you defected." Nymphadora's voice was unrelenting but kind. There was no trace of malicious enjoyment in pointing out the situation, and Draco didn't want to turn around and see the pity for him in her eyes.

"I know that," he whispered, stomach knotting.

"I doubt you'll get a severe sentence. Not in light of your defection, and the other extenuating circumstances… But you're still at the least an accessory to war crimes."

"I know." He shut his eyes; thinking about sitting in front of the Wizengamot while his long list of crimes was listed for the Wizarding world to hear. While Hermione listened in horror to the full details, and bore the shame that would inevitably fall on her, as well as him. She would be guilty by association, and people would shun her, whisper about her. Could he do that to her? If they got that far – alive at the end of the war, their side victorious…could he really put her through that? Was he really _that_ selfish?

"You'll go to Azkaban."

"I fucking _know_ that," he grated, shivering from more than just the cold.

"I'm not saying you should end things between you. That's none of my business," Nymphadora said, "But if I were you, I would think very carefully about whether you and Hermione have any future that isn't going to end in pain and heartache."

And then the door banged shut behind her, and Draco was alone again at last, leaning heavy over the railing, the rain running down his face.

# # #

_Author's Notes: _Okay, in brief because I should be in _bed_…

What did you think?! I know, this chapter might seem a bit dreary and sad and awful for some of your tastes, but don't worry – I only write happy endings. It just takes a while to get there :p And there is more happiness coming up. Soon. I think…

I love writing Hermione and Draco arguing. It is so bloody _fun_. Does it work? Is it realistic and/or enjoyable arguing?

I chose Malaysia as the place Kingsley is going to, because a while back a reviewer said that it would have been nice for a place from that part of the world to be mentioned in my 'list of potential allies the Order contacted' some chapters back. So here it is – Malaysia! I hope I haven't screwed up the Google translation of the name of the group of witches and wizards, or anything else.

Yes, Kingsley is gay. I don't know if that's a common fanon trope or anything like that, but in my fic he's gay.

That is not the last bit of trouble Viktor Krum will inadvertently cause!

And finally, the bit of this chapter that came to my mind first was the conversation with Draco and Tonks. The whole thing, just bam, played like a film reel in my head, and for some reason it's one of my favourite scenes. The rest of the chapter was set up, basically expressly to get to the characters to the point where Draco and Tonks would have that conversation, and talk about _the bigger picture_. Or at least, I see it as _the bigger picture_. Or the future. Ugh, I'm quibbling with myself. Anyway, I would _love_ to hear your thoughts on that scene specifically.

(And yes, I think Draco would totally have to stand trial for his crimes, bar a miracle – and I am not a miracle type of person. He _needs_ to be held responsible for what he did – taking his age, upbringing, coercion etc into account, however, to be fair. In my head, at this point, I'm imagining a slap on the wrist, to be honest, as there were a lot of extenuating circumstances behind why he was a Death Eater. But we'll see how it turns out, further down the line.)

_Please, please leave me a comment!_

(Oh, and thanks to _Iseult_, _Jen_, _GlitzandGlam_, _Ucellina_ and others I can't PM or haven't yet. I would ramble on more about what each of you said like I often do, but if I do I won't get this posted until tomorrow, lol. So just a huge _thank you!_)


	28. Seven Days: Stutter-Shook & Uptight

_Author's Note: Thank you_ to all my wonderful readers and reviewers. As always, an enormous amount of love and appreciation for you all! The story has passed 250 reviews now thanks to you wonderful people! Yay! That makes me ridiculously happy – and want _more_, _MOAR_ I say! :p But seriously…review? Pretty please? ::hopeful puppy eyes::

This chapter has been split into two parts, because otherwise it is going to be _far_ too long (as of posting Part 1, I'm halfway through Part 2 and at 6,000+ words btw). I wanted to try something a little different, and so this 'scene-a-day' thing happened, inspired by a quote from _Dragon Age: Origins_. The title is from "_Colorblind_" by Counting Crows.

Anyway, _Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Seven Days, Part 1: Stutter-Shook and Uptight**_

_On the First Day,_

Hermione had a nightmare.

She was clutching a toddler; a girl, old enough to talk. Intelligent enough to know to be terrified. Strong enough to cling to her with desperate chubby stars of hands. Hermione was standing in the Malfoy Manor, beneath the enormous chandelier, and Draco stood in front of her, face cold and hard. His right hand was there, but maimed – two fingers gone, torn away by Voldemort and fed to the snake. Fenrir Greyback stood behind him, filthy hands clawed, like a monster from a children's tale.

Hermione clutched the child tighter, and the little one wept in baby tears, "Don' let me go. I don' wanna go!" She buried her face in Hermione's shirt, saturating it with hot tears. Hermione stared at Draco, hand smoothing over the child's shoulder-length black hair, baby-fine and silky. "Please," she said to him, begging him not to. "_Please_, not her." Draco's features were brittle and hard as he held out his arms. "Give it here." When he spoke it sounded like he was going to shatter into pieces on the cold floor, and his grey eyes were like ice.

Hermione licked her lips nervously and twisted her body, shielding the child from Draco and Greyback's gaze as best she could, her feet refusing to move. It was as though Hermione was glued to the Manor floor, and she felt panic thread through her. "She's not an _it_." Hermione didn't know the child's name, but she knew the child wasn't an _it_, she was a _person_. An innocent child. Greyback growled and flexed his claw-like hands, and Hermione flinched.

"I'm hungry, Draco," Greyback said in rasping singsong tones, a sneer contorting his face, and Draco shuddered and stepped forward. He looked into Hermione's eyes and she could see him screaming inside. Could hear it. Just one word, over and over again, desperate and formless; _no_. "Don't do this. I'm begging you, Draco. You're not this person. I _know_ you. Please don't. _Don't_," Hermione gasped, half sobbing, her tears bathing the little girl's head.

"I have to. Or he'll kill me," Draco said dreamily, eyes hollow horrors. As Hermione watched they blurred black and too big, and the world warped around her. His fingers grew to claws and then back again, his mouth flickered from tightly pressed together lips into a sneering snarl, filled with teeth filed to points. And yet the flickering monster was still _him_, still Draco, and Hermione was cold with the horror of it. "No, you don't. You _don't_ have to." The child shivered in Hermione's arms, mute with her terror now, fists grabbing at Hermione's shirt. "He'll kill me." Draco took a step forward and Greyback grinned behind him.

"Please don't. Please. Anything. Take me instead. Not her, not her. _Please_ not her." Hermione remembered vague flashes of a smile on Draco's lips, a memory she couldn't place. A laugh. Lust in eyes that were now dead and warped. Warmth and love and hope and guilt, and she _begged_ him not to take the girl. He began the child from her arms. Inexorable. Unstoppable. Hermione squeezed so _tight_ – he couldn't have the girl. He couldn't give her to Greyback. She wouldn't let him.

She clawed at his face and tore gashes into his flesh, the blood trickling thick and sluggish over his pale jaw and dripping on the child's back. He struck her and she would have staggered and fallen but her body was still held steady by that invisible force. Trapped. Unable to even _try _to run. A tooth was loose and blood tasted metallic in her mouth. "You can't have her!" Hermione wailed and Draco hit her again and her nose crunched and she wept, not from the physical pain but because it was all _wrong_. It shouldn't be happening like this. Not like this.

Greyback sneering, laughing. Clawed hands rubbing together with glee.

"Give it here, Hermione." Draco said her name in a hollow, unfeeling voice and she sobbed. "_No_. Please. You aren't – aren't this –" His nails were blackened claws that cut Hermione's skin deeply as he pulled at the child, and Hermione could feel her own blood running warm over her skin. He wrenched and Hermione could feel the child slipping away from her, and held _tighter_, babbling, "You aren't this – please Draco I know you're not this person – you're not a –" He yanked at the child rough and vicious and Hermione locked her arms closed in desperation. There was a sickening crack, and the small body went abruptly, horrifyingly limp in Hermione's arms.

Oh god.

No. _No_. _No._ The girl was dead. Dead in Hermione's arms, spine snapped. Lying limp, with open eyes sightless. _No._

"Monster," Hermione finished in a thready, thin voice as she looked up at Draco's warped features. "_Monster_," she said again, voice low and shaking with hatred this time.

And then the world twisted and shivered again and Draco's eyes were grey and sickened, and his right hand was missing, and his full lips – lips she'd kissed – were parted with stricken horror. He stared at the girl in her arms. "I didn't want to. I didn't…" he whispered, staring at Hermione desperately, and she cradled the dead child protectively closer, her eyes cold and unforgiving on Draco's. "I had to. I had to. I had to." He repeated it over and over as he stared at Hermione, at the child, face crumpling with guilt, body crumpling to the ground.

On his knees as Hermione stared at him – accusing, horrified, hateful, frightened, the girl's small form so slack and heavy in death. Still warm, but the vibrant energy of _life_ was gone. Draco had taken that away. He had taken it away. Hermione wanted to tear him to shreds with her bare hands for what he had done. She stroked the girl's hair, whispering pointless soothing words, tears like a flood, throat aching. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," he mumbled like a litany, broken on the floor.

Behind him, Greyback laughed and laughed.

# # #

_On the Second Day,_

Draco was avoiding Hermione. Hermione _knew _it, and it made her feel sick to her stomach. Her feelings about what he had done, even after that awful nightmare, paled in comparison to her feelings about losing him. She had tried to corner him over the past two days, but he had shied away from her, adroitly slipping away – down to the cellar, or into another room. When she _did_ manage to corner him, it was in front of other people, where they couldn't actually _talk_, and he refused to go somewhere private. He would interrupt her stammered words and say, "Not now, Hermione," and simply walk away, leaving her standing stupidly, the others staring curiously at her. Or he would say quietly so only she could hear, "I thought you needed some _time_? Well you've fucking got it," and stare at her so furiously wounded that she would turn tail and flee from the force of his anger.

Hermione had made a terrible mistake.

She desperately needed advice, and so she slipped upstairs away from the others and talked to Tonks. She sat at the end of Tonks and Lupin's bed, zipping and unzipping her jersey nervously, and poured her heart out in quiet, hesitant words, trying not to cry. "He keeps telling me that _I wanted time_. Like it's why he won't talk to me. But I don't _want _any more time!" she half-wailed, frustrated nearly to tears. "It's just an excuse for him to avoid me!" Tonks wriggled back against the pile of pillows behind her, and sighed. "_He_ needs time, Hermione. He's obviously…unsure. And you can't trap him into talking to you if he's not ready to." Hermione frowned at her jersey zipper, "I know I was horrid to him, but he…I don't understand why he needs time. Why you think he's _unsure_."

Then Hermione's eyes narrowed. "_Wait_. Tonks, did you talk to him?" Tonks looked away, hand cradling the swell of her belly, rubbing it idly. "Maybe," she said evasively, and Hermione's heart jumped, "When?" If Tonks could tell her something about what Draco was thinking, maybe Hermione could figure out the right words to say to him, the words that would make everything all right again. But Tonks shook her head uncomfortably, hair tinting deepest burgundy from the pink it had been. Hermione wondered if Tonks realised how much of a mood indicator her hair was when she wasn't thinking about it. "It's important, isn't it?"

Tonks shook her head firmly again. "No, Hermione. It's _private_. I can't tell you what he told me. If he wanted you to know, he'd tell you himself."

Hermione sucked on her lower lip, thinking. "Can you…maybe give me a hint?" Tonks winced and shifted on the bed, rubbing her back and avoiding Hermione's eyes. "I don't know, Hermione. It doesn't seem right. I'm not a bloody spy."

"Please, Tonks?"

"He's worried about the future," Tonks said hurriedly, frowning as she spoke, "And that's all I'm saying. You won't get another word out of me."

"The future? _Our_ future, you mean?" It sounded so strange saying that – _our future_ – and Hermione blushed and ducked her head and twiddled with her jersey hem, looking up at Tonks from under her lashes. "Hermione…for Merlin's sake, what did I just say? I'm not your spy, and I'm not going to tell you anything more."

"Please, Tonks?"

"You're not stupid, Hermione. Think about the _future_. If we win this damned war, what kind of future can the two of you have together? Don't _you_ ever think about that?"

"I try not to," Hermione mumbled, sighing. "_Draco_ was the one who said to just go with the flow. Enjoy the moment. Leave the future to take care of itself." If that was why Draco was avoiding her, then Hermione was bloody well annoyed with him. Well, she was annoyed regardless – but she would be even _more_ irritated if Draco was hiding away because he was worried about their _future_. How was that supposed to solve anything? She wasn't just going to go away. They needed to _talk_. Calmly, like the mature of-age people they were. God, like that would ever happen. All their serious conversations seemed to devolve into arguments at some point.

"He was the one who said to just do what felt right. _I_ wanted to think about it, but _he_ said I was over thinking things. He always bloody says that, and _now_ look at him," Hermione muttered half to herself, a deep frown crease cutting between her dark brows as she brooded.

"Maybe he's changed his mind. I don't know, Hermione. But chasing him around the house trying to _trap_ him into talking to you isn't going to help. Just…give him a few days before you try again, all right?" Tonks said firmly, a hint of exasperation in her tone, and Hermione nodded absent-mindedly. "I'll try." She supposed Tonks was right, and trying to harass Draco into talking to her really wasn't going to help. But she hated just sitting around doing nothing, feeling like he was slipping away from her. Distancing himself. Why? So he could end it? Because he thought it was over? She had tried to tell him it wasn't, that she still loved him, but he hadn't listened. It was like she had been talking to a stone.

"Whatever happens, Hermione – it's not the end of the world, all right?" Tonks said insistently, catching Hermione's eye. "You think he's going to… That it's…over? Did he tell you that?" Hermione asked urgently, her heart fluttering in her throat with sick fear, and Tonks shook her head swiftly. "No. He didn't say that – I promise. But…if he did break up with you, it wouldn't be the end of the world."

"I know it wouldn't be," Hermione agreed dully, "But it would feel like it. I remember how miserable _you_ were when you wanted to be with Remus, and he kept saying you couldn't be because he was a werewolf and too old for you besides – you were a _wreck_. So don't preach what you couldn't practice." Tonks swore, half-amused, half-frustrated, "Damnit, Hermione. Do you have to have such a good memory?"

"Well it was hardly some minor incident – you were moping around for ages. It wasn't some blink-and-you'll-miss-it event."

"Yes, well…"

"_And_ you only cheered up when you and Remus got together," Hermione pressed her point, and Tonks gave her a quelling look. "My point still stands, Hermione. It's not the end of the world, even if it feels like it."

"You don't sound very hopeful," Hermione commented, trying to sound lighter than she felt – inside she felt like she had been stuffed with lead weights and sewn back up.

"No one's future is very hopeful, right now. And for you and Draco…it will hardly be easy. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, I know. But I can handle difficult."

"Can you?"

Hermione glared at Tonks. "_Yes_, of course I can," she snapped, and then took a deep breath. Tonks had given her useful advice, even if Hermione hadn't liked all of it. She had tried to help Hermione, and it wasn't her fault that everything between Hermione was messed up and awful. "I'm sorry. Thank you, Tonks. I appreciate…" She waved aimlessly with one hand, and Tonks shrugged and grinned, voice bright and cheerful again. "No problem, Hermione. It's fine – I'm happy to help."

# # #

Draco had been on a mission with Weasley and a few other Order members, and he was fucking exhausted, covered in mud, and aching with a cold that had seeped into his very bones. Draco just wanted a hot shower, and sleep. "Drink, Malfoy?" Weasley offered with an air of friendly indifference, and Draco managed a weary, unsure half-smile, not sure how the hell to respond. Weasley being _nice_ to Draco had been so low in probability in Draco's head that he hadn't thought it would even be possible. "No. I'm too knackered," he said simply and felt like an idiot for not snarking at Weasley. Being civil seemed wrong somehow. He and Weasley just weren't friendly – it wasn't what they did. But apparently…they _did_?

Merlin, it was fucking confusing. Everyone had been treating him differently since the mission at Hogwarts. They weren't falling over themselves to be friendly, not by a fucking long shot, but they were being civil. Working with them a few more times and proving himself again had probably helped with that.

They had worked together three times now, him and the Weasel. The mission at Hogwarts, one yesterday, and again today. This one and the one before it had been nothing major; no fighting, just surveillance, reconnaissance. Draco had swallowed his pride and asked Potter to let him go along just so that he could get out of the house and away from Hermione. It hurt to be around her. He kept looking at her and wondering how in the hell being with her wasn't going to end up tearing his heart out of his chest, and breaking hers. Draco couldn't stop thinking about what Nymphadora had said about standing trial. Draco couldn't fool himself any longer; he had to face reality. There was only one Horcrux to go, save Nagini, the damned snake, and a conclusion to the war was drawing near.

And with the end of the war would come his trial, and most likely a sentence to Azkaban, Draco thought drearily as he slouched heavily through the foyer, bone weary.

Reality was not a kind place, and it seemed to have no room for him and Hermione. What would she do while he was in Azkaban? Pine away for him? He snorted as he clumped in muddy boots through the dining room toward the cellar door, itching for a shower. Draco wouldn't want for her to wait around for him – and she wasn't the pining sort, anyway. Or rather, Hermione _shouldn't_ be the pining sort – she was blindingly brilliant and strong and full of life and curiosity, and if she had half her mind on him, she wouldn't be able to fulfil that potential. She could do amazing things with her intelligence, and drive for knowledge, and if her life were eaten up by waiting around for him – worrying about him, missing him…it wouldn't be fair. Hermione deserved more out of life than to go through years of it alone and lonely while Draco was being broken down in Azkaban. Fuck, he didn't know what the hell to do.

"Draco," Hermione's voice made Draco's shoulders go rigid, and his pulse doubled. Fuck. He couldn't deal with her right now; trembling from exhaustion, and coated head to toe in mud from crawling along a godforsaken ditch under the noses of half a dozen Death Eaters. Draco glanced over his shoulder at her. Fuck, it really _did_ hurt to look at her. Draco felt miserable. She was right there, and he didn't know what the hell to do. If he had her, he'd lose her, and if he ended things now, he'd have lose her. Either option was fucking unacceptable, but there didn't seem to be a third. "Draco?" Hermione asked again, her bright stripy jersey making her complexion look more pallid than it already was, and her brown eyes dulled, one hand going nervously to tug at a strand of hair that had slipped from her utilitarian ponytail.

"What?" he asked flatly, and Hermione bit her lip and her chin trembled. Fuck, he hated himself, sometimes. He just needed some time to _think_. Some time to find a third solution, or force himself to accept one of the other options. Right now he _knew_ that talking to Hermione would just end up in another pointless argument that solved nothing, and only made them both feel more like shit. "What?" he said again, voice a little softer, and she shook her head, fingers still fidgeting with that fallen lock of hair. "Nothing. Never mind. Sorry," she said in a rush and then fled the room with hurried steps.

"Sure you don't want a beer?" Longbottom asked, scraping some mud off his cheek and frowning at it. "Aren't you even going to shower first?" Draco asked disgustedly, dragging his eyes from the doorway Hermione had disappeared through, and Longbottom shrugged, "It's only mud. _Scourgify _the worst of it, and the rest can wait." Draco wrinkled his nose up and curled his lip. "No. Thanks, but _no_," he refused shortly, tongue tripping over the unfamiliar _thanks_. Draco Malfoy didn't _thank _Longbottom – except he did now. Apparently.

Longbottom eyed Draco carefully. "You and 'Mione fall out or something?" There was a trace of sympathy mixed in with Longbottom's tentative curiosity. "Just tired, like I said to Weasley. I want a damned shower, not to have a drink, or a fucking chat," Draco said, too tired to sound malicious, and Longbottom shrugged, looking a little confused. "Fair enough."

"Hmmph," Draco grunted in response, clomping past Longbottom and yanking the cellar door open. If one of Karkaroff's little escort was in the bathroom, Draco was bloody well going to throw him out. How many showers did they bloody need, anyway? They were always hogging the thing. It was _his_ bathroom, damnit. He was _not_ in the fucking mood.

The cellar was different now. Extra beds and dressers separated by screens segmented the big room, and the lighting was brighter. Draco's corner was, to be fair, the biggest private area – Lupin had made sure of _that_, at least. His bed, his table with its two rickety chairs, the pile of board games on the dresser, and a book on the bed. A book on the bed? That hadn't been there when he had left on the mission this afternoon. Draco tromped over, mud flaking off his boots, and stared down at it, frowning. Time Enough For Love, by _Robert A. Heinlein_.

Hermione. Of course. And with a none-too-subtle message too, judging by the title. He imagined she could communicate nearly entirely with book titles, and a smile crept onto his face. He didn't have enough time. He was never going to have enough bloody time. But fuck, he loved her.

What was he going to _do_?

# # #

_On the Third Day,_

Hermione watched Draco from the one chair in the lounge that afforded her a view into the dining room. He was sitting on the chair at the end of the table, legs stretched under the table, a glass of firewhiskey in hand. He looked lean and hard, and he was talking intently to Harry – about the Gringotts mission they were planning, Hermione thought – waving his glass around in the air as he gestured emphatically. He was gorgeous.

He looked almost at home with the other boys. Almost like he fit in, and a trembly smile shaped Hermione's lips. She was happy for him. This was what she had wanted. She had just thought… She shook her head, shifting in the chair; only the top of her head and her eyes visible if Draco or Harry looked in her direction. There was still a stiff distance there that Hermione could see clearly even from the other room; a cautiousness in their conversation, but other than that… Draco had finally been accepted – to some small degree anyway. It was a start.

Except for the day after the mission to get the diadem, Draco had been working a mission every day. Two on surveillance and recon, and one today that had ended in a small clash with some of Voldemort's allies; they didn't know who they had been, just that the dead they'd left behind hadn't had the Mark. Draco had killed two of them, and wounded a third. When he, Lupin, the two Aurors, Ron, and Neville had returned to the house, blood had covered Draco's face like a veil from a deep slash across his forehead, and he had been limping badly thanks to a gash down his leg. He was pushing himself too hard, and he wouldn't talk to Hermione about anything. He wouldn't even say _hello_ if he could avoid it.

She was consumed by him now, when he was avoiding her, more than she ever had been when he had been paying her attention. It was ironic.

Harry, Ron and Neville had apparently been highly impressed by Draco's _bravery_ during the duelling, and dug out a bottle of finely aged firewhiskey, toasted him. Recounted what had happened to each other, and anyone who went into the dining room, as they got steadily drunker and drunker. She watched from her chair, a heavy book on her lap that she wasn't reading. It was like some stupid acceptance ritual; nearly get yourself killed with your foolish recklessness, get completely inebriated and talk it up afterwards, and magically become one of the boys.

All Hermione could think was that if Draco had been slashed two inches lower, he could have lost his eyes. The Healers couldn't fix _everything_. He could have lost his _eyes_.

She felt sick, watching him – healed and bloody gorgeous. It wasn't fair. When was he going to decide he wanted to talk to her? He couldn't just ignore her forever, could he? The thought was like a punch to the gut. Hermione could imagine it. Day after day, watching him; waiting for him to talk to her, but him never actually doing it. And then before she knew it, months would have gone by, and she'd walk into the lounge to find him snogging someone else, and she'd realise that 'time to talk' had actually been code for 'it's over, Hermione.' Oh god, she felt ill.

"Hermione Jean Granger!" A voice hissed vehemently in her ear, and Hermione jumped and stifled a shriek, heart racing, hand splaying over her chest on instinct, and feeling the thumpthumpthump of the galloping organ. Ginny's triumphant, accusatory whisper-yell went on, "You've got a crush on the fucking ferret!" Hermione whipped her head around and met Ginny's eyes, speechless. "You _have_, haven't you?" Ginny asked, a horrified expression appearing on her face, as Hermione's look confirmed her guess. "_No._" Hermione denied it immediately, and Ginny cocked an eyebrow. "You're _lying_," she said too loudly and Hermione flapped her hands in a hushing gesture, trying to inject her voice with irritation rather than desperation as she said, "Keep your voice down, Ginny! _Honestly_."

"See! Why do I have to whisper if it's not true?"

"Because I don't want ridiculous, inaccurate rumours going about, obviously." Hermione fixed Ginny with a steady stare, "I'm telling you the truth – I don't have a crush on Draco Malfoy." Ginny sat on the coffee table in front of Hermione's chair, leaning in close. "I'm not stupid, Hermione. I _know_ that look. You haven't taken your eyes off Malfoy since you sat down in that chair, and you look like you want to _eat_ him," Ginny hissed, a hint of disgust in her tone at the thought, and her eyes went to Draco, Hermione's following hers. They both stared at Draco silently for a second; refilling his glass with less than steady movements, spilling firewhiskey over the side of his glass. He looked more relaxed than usual, drunk and sweet, biting his lip in intense concentration as he screwed the bottle top unsteadily back on one-handed.

"See, you're doing it again!"

"No I'm not!" Hermione said but she couldn't help flushing guiltily and Ginny snorted. "Liar."

"I'm not lying!" Hermione said, volume of her voice rising as she protested Ginny's accusation, and Draco must have heard her, because he looked over at her and Ginny. Their eyes met, and Hermione smiled at him automatically – _hopefully_, forgetting all about Ginny's presence, desperate to get some sort of reaction from Draco. Draco's half-smirk faded and a pained expression crossed his features as he looked away from Hermione, and gulped down a mouthful of firewhiskey. She flinched. Every time he turned away from her, every time he avoided her, it _hurt_. Ginny grabbed Hermione's wrist. "_He _likes _you_. You and him…" she gasped, some idea of the truth slowly dawning as she looked between Hermione and Draco.

Hermione shook her head wearily, chest still aching and tight from Draco's rejection. "He doesn't." And for all she knew, maybe he didn't anymore. He certainly didn't seem to _want_ to like her. Love her. Merlin, Hermione didn't have the energy for Ginny's questioning. She snapped her book shut and shook Ginny's hand off her wrist. "Just leave me alone, Ginny." She got to her feet and headed for the stairs with quick, angry steps, and Ginny followed her up them, keeping pace with her as they headed down the long hallway toward Hermione's room. "I _know_ you like each other. What's going on, Hermione?" Ginny sounded both concerned and disapproving, and Hermione rolled her eyes. Why did everyone have to be so judgemental?

"Nothing that's any of your business, Ginny."

"We're friends. Friends aren't supposed to keep secrets like this from each other. Are you with _Malfoy_? Or were you? Or do you both want to be? And why did he look so upset before, when you looked at him?" They reached Hermione's room and she spun around and faced Ginny, breaking off Ginny's flow of guesses. "Seriously, Ginny. Please. It's private. And it doesn't – doesn't matter anymore anyway," Hermione said miserably. Visions of everything falling apart were running in a loop through her head, and as she spoke, Hermione realised she just wanted to crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head, and cry.

Ginny frowned. "Hermione, _honestly_. We're friends. If there's something wrong, you can talk to me about it. Even if it's about…_Malfoy_." Her face screwed up for a second, but she continued on in a gentler voice, "You're acting miserable, you and Malfoy haven't been talking lately, and after what I saw downstairs… Hermione you can talk to me – I'm not going to…judge you. No matter what's going on."

Hermione opened her bedroom door and bit her lip, thinking. Did she want to talk to Ginny about it? Could she trust her not to tell anyone else? Hermione lowered her eyes to the floor, staring at her stripy socks. "Thanks, but there's nothing I want to talk about right now," she said dully, and Ginny made an exasperated sound. "Hermione…"

"Can you…not tell anyone about this?" Hermione asked hesitantly, still staring at the floor. Ginny was silent for a second, and then said, "All right. I won't tell anyone. But Hermione, if there's something going on, you need to talk about it. I just want to make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine." Hermione lifted her eyes to Ginny's face and attempted a smile. "Seriously. I'm all right, Ginny."

"Sure you are," Ginny muttered. Hermione smiled again at Ginny, lips feeling strange and unresponsive, and lifted a hand in awkward dismissal, shutting her bedroom door quickly. The door clicked closed and Hermione sank back against it, listening. She heard Ginny's footsteps retreat, and when the sound was gone, Hermione slid down the door into a heap of tension on the floor, burying her face in her hands, taking slow deep breaths. She felt wrung out, panicky and exhausted and remembering the way Draco had looked at her.

And Ginny knew. God, Ginny _knew_. Or sort of knew, anyway. It wasn't exactly complicated for Ginny to figure out, and Hermione had no doubt Ginny had guessed the basics, if not the details. She hoped the other witch would keep her word and not say anything to anyone, but… Hermione didn't know. She rubbed away welling tears and forced herself to be calm. Ginny wouldn't tell anyone, except maybe Harry – and he already knew. Ginny hadn't been furious. Yes, she had been rather repulsed, but Hermione had expected that and far worse. Mostly Ginny had just been _concerned_; at the tremble to Hermione's hands and voice, and the tears in her dark-circled eyes, and the tension that knotted her muscles.

Draco had looked at her, and for a second he had been all sweet, smirking, drunkenness, and then pain had twinged at his features. Reshaped them. Like looking at Hermione had _hurt_ him. And Hermione didn't know _why_, because _he wouldn't fucking talk to her. _It didn't make any sense, and she wanted it all to make sense. So she could fix it. Fix everything. Hermione was so _tired_ of all this hurt and confusion, just so bloody _tired_. All she wanted was for it to be easy for a little while – was that really too much to ask? She stifled a choked sob and dropped her head back against the door with a dull thud, staring at the window opposite with bleary eyes. She supposed so. Obviously.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ And that's the first part! What did you all think?

Was the nightmare horrible and creepy enough? Too horrible and creepy? It was disturbingly fun to write. Ginny knows now and is trying to be supportive even if it completely weirds her out! People are being friendlier to Draco but ironically it doesn't really matter as now he's not with Hermione he doesn't need/want them to like him! Tonks doing what she does best – giving practical, matter-of-fact advice and support!

So it was another rather heavy chapter IMO, and right now everything looks bleak and awful for Hermione and Draco – but don't worry, there's always a light at the end of the tunnel. I like angst (obviously), but I also must have my happy endings, and my sexing – so things can't be awful forever, or even much longer. (This "Seven Days" format is actually a way for me to kind of…fast-forward through a lot of Hermione and Draco's issues, TBH, or being _me_, they could go on forever.)

Review-whoring: _Reviews_ are the only payment I get for this, and as someone who is _excellent_ at starting things and not finishing them, your much appreciated feedback is a big part of what keeps me motivated, because I don't want to let you all down, lol.So pretty please_ review_ if you enjoyed the chapter :)

About the chapter style: I wanted to do something to advance the timeline a little that wasn't just "Two weeks later…", I wanted to show snippets more than continuous story, and I wanted it to be kind of bleak and nightmarish and a little disjointed and such, to reflect where Hermione and Draco's mindset is at right now. And into my head popped a super-creepy rhyme this character _Hespith_ says in the game _Dragon Age: Origins. _

"First day, they come and catch everyone.

Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat.

Third day, the men are gnawed on again.

Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate.

Fifth day, they return and it's another girl's turn.

Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams.

Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew.

Eighth day, we hated as she is violated.

Ninth day she grins and devours her kin.

Now she does feast, as she's become the beast."

So…yeah… The format of the 'day' thing is what I took from that rhyme, as well as trying to inject just a _little teeny_ bit of that creepiness into the chapter, mostly with the chapter's firstscene.

_Next chapter_… Far more Draco/Hermione interactions; the pair of them on a dangerous mission, arguing, confusion, angry hot sexual tension etc. There's more drinking, fighting, death, gore, pantries (yes pant_r_ies, not panties), and an inebriated Krum gets himself in trouble.

And here endeth the enormous author's note :)


	29. Seven Days, Part 2: Far Away

_Author's Note: _Ohmigod, over 270 reviews! Thank you! You folks are just the bestest. I'm so lucky to have such awesome reviewers :) ::does a little happy dance:: And we're getting so close to 300! ::bats eyelashes beguilingly::

I've ended up splitting the Seven Days sequence up into 3 parts, which gives it a nice symmetry with the Hogwarts sequence, and stops it from being enormously long and taking two weeks to get posted. The title is from "_Starlight_" by Muse, and always the song ties in very nicely with the overall theme of the chapter.

Okay, now get the box o' tissues ready if you're a weeper!

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Seven Days, Part 2: Far Away**_

_On the Fourth Day,_

The night was still and the sky scape was cloudless and starry. The autumn air was bitingly cold, and Draco perversely revelled in the bitter chill creeping into his hand where it rested on the icy railing of the back porch. It was peaceful out here, and somehow the painful cold made it easier to clear his mind, make _it_ cold too. Make him a stone.

He leant over the railing and stared up at the sky, idly picking out familiar constellations. There was the Giant with his club, and the bright star that marked the point of the hat of Velox Manu, the Dueller, and the shape of Mare Flamma, the Mermaid, picked out in stars.

A while ago, one quiet night in the cellar, Hermione had told Draco that Muggles had gone out to the stars. Out into the black, all the way to the moon – tonight a bloated, pale crescent rising up into the sky. The Muggles had ridden up in a metal rocket – riding _fire_. Draco had disbelieved her at first, and _she_ had been disbelieving that he didn't already know. "Honestly, you'd think you'd keep abreast of Muggle developments. Know thy enemy and all that." Draco had been too ashamed to remind Hermione that _his_ part of the wizarding world considered Muggles to be no better than animals. They wouldn't want to acknowledge anything that proved them wrong and threatened their view of rightful supremacy. And they _certainly_ wouldn't want to teach their children about it.

So instead he had smirked affectionately and said, "Prove it." And she, of course, had gone and dug out a book – "A children's encyclopaedia; I thought Mr Weasley might find it interesting." It had a whole chapter devoted wholly to space travel, and it had all been utterly alien to Draco; talking of science and technology, with loads of those funny, static Muggle photos illustrating it. "Isn't that dangerous?" he had asked curiously, pointing to a picture of a slim metal rocket, a bloody _explosion_ taking place beneath it, and billowing up around its long body. A frozen split second of explosive time, and Draco had kept expecting it to show the moment in loop, like a wizarding photo.

"Yes. People have died, even."

"So _why_…?"

"To learn, Draco," Hermione had said as if confused Draco had even needed to ask the question. "To _discover_. To grow and progress as a species, _because_ of any discoveries made. To gain new knowledge. You know, that's what's wrong with your – sorry, I mean _Voldemort's_ view of the world. That's what's wrong with what he wants to achieve. He doesn't want to achieve change, or growth, or development for the wizarding world."

Draco remembered how Hermione's eyes had glittered as she had spoken suddenly so fiercely to him, leaning across the table, hand splayed out on the Children's Encyclopaedia.

"What he and his followers want – and many of the old families who aren't fighting on either side but are staying neutral want – amounts to _stagnation_. They want to stay in the past – regress, even. Muggles – Muggles are always striving to reach further and further, even into space, even at risk of _death_. Voldemort and _everyone_ who thinks _Mudbloods_ don't belong in the wizarding world don't seem to realise that _we_ are actually one of your most precious resources. We can bring all the innovation and curiosity and _reaching_ of Muggles to the wizarding world; stop the stagnation, stop the wizarding world from dying out. Because if the wizarding world doesn't choose to embrace change, eventually it _will_ falter and fail."

She had been so passionate, so sure, and Draco had thought how beautiful she looked, even as he frowned at her prediction. He hadn't – he still didn't – like the thought that the wizarding world was, in effect, assuring its own eventual demise. "Oh really?" he had asked her with a raised eyebrow, and she had nodded. "Muggles are _becoming_. Draco. Becoming much more, day-by-day. Crawling, running, _leaping_ forward. You know, if Muggles and wizards were at open war, I would put my money on the Muggles winning. Not without an immense amount of collateral damage, but _still_ – they could wipe wizards from the earth if they wished."

Draco had scoffed at that, and Hermione had smirked and proceeded to enlighten him on Muggle advances – or the pertinent ones at least. Nuclear weapons. Biological weapons. Chemical weapons. Muggles seemed to have a collective hard-on for weapons of mass destruction. A bloodthirsty lot they were, and Draco knew _he_ wouldn't want to fight against them in a war, when they had weapons that could level entire cities in the blink of an eye. At the end she had told him, "Choice and change, Draco. Those are two of the most important abilities humans have, and Voldemort and all those who sympathise with him have made the wrong choice. They refuse to change. And _you_ should know how important it is to choose the right thing, to be willing to change your preconceptions and beliefs."

He did. Yes, he sure as hell did. But how did you know which was the right choice? It wasn't always all that obvious. And how did you know in what way you should change? Draco stared up at the bright stars that made up the constellation of Proditae, the Betrayed. His mother had told him the story of Proditae as a bedtime tale when he was little.

Iocale, she had been named at birth; Jewel. And as she had grown she had become the jewel of her family, the pride of her home. Not for her beauty, for she was a rather ordinary featured girl, but for her skill in transfiguration. People had come to their tiny village from far and wide to see her talents – her transfigurations were always perfect, and never lost their form, needing no constant meagre feed of magic to keep them stable. Iocale _wove_ the spells, sitting at a loom and creating beautiful tapestries as a way to focus and channel and _embed _her magic. She became famous, and her family became rich and respected.

One day a young man from their village came to ask for her hand, and her father refused him – sent him away. Said that Iocale was too precious to be given to a penniless, inconstant village peasant, and that Vulpes – the Fox – only wanted Iocale for her money. But Vulpes had not been dissuaded by Iocale's father's words. He loved her truly, having watched her from afar for many years, listening as she talked with her friends while weaving, and had fallen in love with her quick wit and bright manner. He had been drawn to her by her weaving, but he loved her for her quiet beauty and swift humour, not her money.

Vulpes went away and became a mercenary, to earn enough gold to prove to Iocale's father that he was successful in his own right, and worthy of his daughter. When he returned five years later, a hardened man with gold heavy in his pockets, Iocale was now nineteen and more clever and beautiful than ever – and Vulpes asked her father for her hand. Iocale's father loved her very much, and was horrified by the thought of his precious jewel married to a rough, murdering mercenary, as Vulpes so appeared to him now. Once more he refused Vulpes' request.

So Vulpes approached Iocale secretly – every night he would creep to her window and simply talk with her, until the moon was sinking to its bed. She would sit in her pale, silvered robe at the end of her low bed, and he would perch on the sill of the window, framed by stars. He never touched Iocale, but his tongue was silver and charm, and Iocale fell in love with Vulpes, begging her father to let her marry him. He refused as gently as he could, and told Iocale that Vulpes would bring her nothing but pain. To forget him, and choose one of the elegant, gentle-mannered young noblemen that came to visit her and beg for her attentions. But none of them appealed to her; Vulpes was strong and clever, unlike the bland noblemen who simpered before her.

They ran away together on a summer's night, and Iocale lay with Vulpes – Draco's mother had always skipped that part, he remembered with a smile, and hadn't known it until he had read the story himself – and then Iocale returned to her home hand in hand with her lover. She told her father that she was no longer pure; that she had given herself to Vulpes, and that the only way to restore her honour was for her to marry him. Iocale's father was furious, and convinced Vulpes had somehow tricked his daughter, refused to let Iocale marry him. Instead, rage and hurt blinding him, Iocale's father went to the village elders, and accused Vulpes of using trickery to despoil Iocale. Despite Iocale's protests, the elders believed Iocale's father over the denials of a rough mercenary and his poor 'deceived' victim.

Vulpes was sentenced to execution for the trickery they said he employed to gain Iocale's trust, and for the defilement of Iocale's body and honour. Iocale begged them not to kill Vulpes; she screamed and wailed with grief and horror, but they would not listen to her. She watched silently as he burned, unable to save him. Afterward, Iocale went to her loom, and wove in secret, shut away for days with only water to sustain her. Her tears saturated her work, and her fingers bled from the speed and precision she worked with. When her father finally broke into her room one evening to try to convince her to eat the room was empty. There was a completed tapestry on the loom; Iocale made of stars, her eyes full of grief and accusation, a fox cradled on her lap. The curtains at the open window flapped in the breeze.

Iocale's father walked to the window, dread heavy in his heart, and in the sky he saw a constellation that had not been there before; the starry outline of the tapestry that sat inside. Iocale had transfigured herself into the stars, forever with Vulpes, the fox, so that her father would be reminded of what he had done, and what he had lost every time the sun set. And so the constellation was called Proditae, The Betrayed, for what Iocale's father had done to her and Vulpes.

Except Draco thought that perhaps it wasn't Iocale's father who had betrayed her after all. Her father had _told_ her Vulpes would bring her pain, and he _had_. It was _Vulpes_ who had betrayed Iocale in a way; if he had accepted her father's refusal and bloody well left Iocale alone, she would have most likely lived out a long and happy life. So she would never have experienced what it was like to be loved by Vulpes and love him in return, but she would never have known what she was missing. Iocale would have been happy, and _alive_, instead of imprisoning herself in the stars for eternity because of her grief.

Fuck. It made him think of choices, and of Hermione and their own star-bloody-crossed situation. Everything fucking made him think of Hermione – he came out into the serenity of the night to clear his head of thoughts of her, and she was all he had thought of. It was verging on pathetic. No, it _was _pathetic. Draco sighed and shivered as a chill breeze whipped through his thin shirt – freezing his flesh even more than it already was. He should be in a coat, but he didn't want to; forcing himself to let the cold beat into him until he felt numbed inside and out. Like some sort of punishment. At least it distracted him of his thoughts of Hermione.

The door handle turned, and Draco's stomach flipped sickly. No one had seen him come out here; he had made sure of that. He had thought he would be undisturbed. Of course, it could only be one person, he thought, fingers looking faintly purple-blue on the wooden railing. "I'm bloody _sick_ of letting you avoid me," she declared briskly and Draco turned and faced her; arms crossed over her chest, weight resting on her right foot so her hip jutted out, staring him down with her lips flattened and eyes determined. He wanted to kiss her. Wanted to grab her and crush her to him; tangle his fingers in her hair, run his hand over her curves and dips, re-familiarising himself with every lush inch. "_Let_ me?" Draco said sharply instead, and her mouth pursed, a crease appeared between her brows. "_Muffliato_," Hermione snapped and re-pocketed her wand. "We need to talk, Draco."

She took a step forward and without consulting his brain on the matter, Draco's feet did the same. They were so close he could smell the scent of her shampoo – vanilla and honey. "About _what?_" Her chin quivered at the sharpness in his tone, and her mouth turned downwards. "About us, you git. About whether there _is_ an us. I know I said some horrible things, but I _do_ want to be with you, Draco. I _do_. But with the way you've been acting…I'm starting to think that maybe you don't want to be with me."

"You were disgusted by me, Hermione. How can you want to be with me, really? Once it sank in, once you really _thought_ about what I've done, you were disgusted," he accused and felt terrible. Like a liar. _That_ wasn't why he was avoiding Hermione. Draco had understood her reaction to his confessions all too well. He was just as disgusted by what he had done as she was. Their argument and what she had said had hurt him and frustrated him – and all right, yeah it had pissed Draco off after all her naïve assurances that it _didn't matter_, but that wasn't why he was avoiding her.

He was avoiding her because he had taken her advice for the wizarding world about choices and change to heart – he was looking forward to the future, not stagnating in the past or wallowing in the temporary fantasy of the present. He was looking ahead; just not quite in the way she had meant it when she had lectured him on Muggle and wizarding attitudes.

"Yes, I _was_ disgusted." She paused and grasped for words, hugging herself now and shivering from the cold in just her light jersey. Draco didn't even feel cold anymore; skin too numbed. "But I don't _care_. That… God, that chapter of your life does disgust me, I can't deny it. But…the chapter you're writing now – I like it. I love who you are in it. And there are so many more chapters to be written, and I _know_ they're going to be amazing." She looked at him defiantly in the faint glow of the street lamp thrown past the house. "And I want to be in those chapters. I _do_."

_Fuck_. Draco felt a lump of emotion lodge in his throat, and it ached. That was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him. No one had ever felt that way about Draco before, and he stared at her speechlessly, heart thudding quick and hard. "I –" How was he supposed to react to that? It made him want to pin her up against the door and kiss her, touch her, drink her in. To crush her body against his and whisper in her ear everything he felt toward her. How much he had come to love her. How brilliant and strong and fucking incredible she was. How he never wanted to let her go. And then he thought of Azkaban and his heart shrivelled up, and bitterness hardened him, robbed him of what should have been one of the happiest moments he had ever experienced. Stole away his stunned, grateful joy at her declaration.

Draco opened his mouth and told her the truth that he suddenly knew, as bright as she was, she hadn't realised. He had thought she had known. "They won't be _amazing_, Hermione. They won't be _anything_." He sounded hard and alien to his own ears, and he clenched his fist hard enough that his nails drew traces of blood. Her defiant, determined expression faltered. "What – what do you mean?" Her voice was small and hesitant, and she was afraid. Draco could see it in her eyes. "What do you think is going to happen after the war if you – our – _this_ side wins, Hermione?" he asked stiffly, an edge of anger in his voice – not aimed at her, but at the whole damned situation. Hermione stared at him blank and scared, shook her head, "I don't – I don't know. Draco, what do you _mean_?"

He ran his hand through his hair and winced as the strands ran rough over the shallow scrapes his ragged nails had left in his palm. Frustration and anger seethed in his head, and the numbness of the cold felt purely unpleasant now, no perverse pleasure in the leaden chill. "Do you think I'll be branded a hero? Do you think I'll be liked? Accepted? Do you have images in your head of some possible happy future?" She looked at him, just _looked_, full of bewilderment on the brink of hurt. "Because if you do, then get them out of your head. _Forget_ them; they're a fucking _fantasy_, not reality. The chances of us having any sort of happy ending are bloody _miniscule_, and for someone who's meant to be so bloody bright, I can't believe you haven't realised that yet." Draco was harsh and angry, words saturated in cruelty, and Hermione's eyes turned wounded and wet in front of him, her lips quivered for a moment.

"Why? _Why?_"

"Because I'll have to stand trial, you stupid bint," he grated, being horrible and mean because otherwise he just _knew_ he'd cry. Draco couldn't cry. Not now, not in front of her. She would want to comfort him and he…he couldn't take that right now. He turned away from her sharply, glaring at the stars visible from beneath the porch roof, twinkling on the horizon. Hermione's hand was cold on Draco's arm through his thin shirt, fingers tentatively resting on his forearm as she whispered, "But you've defected. You're fighting on our side. You – you're on _our_ side. They _couldn't_…"

"For Merlins sake, Hermione!" Draco spun back around and she was right _there_. So close – too close. Her hair was a dark cloud around her pale face, tip of her nose red with cold, eyes wet and limpid. He snarled at her, choking on his frustration, "Why the _fuck_ do you think?"

"I – I don't know," she stammered and Draco groaned. He didn't want to have to bloody spell it out for her. But she was forcing him. "Do you forget so quickly? Those children, Hermione. And everyone else I hurt myself, or handed over for torture and death – do you think I can just be _forgiven_ of those crimes?" As much as Draco didn't want to go to Azkaban – Merlin, the very thought made him want to grovel and beg for mercy, piss his pants with fear – Draco couldn't deny that it was only fair for him to stand trial. To be held accountable for what he'd done. To be punished. Just… A frightened part of him asked in terrified whimpers if he couldn't perhaps make up for what he'd done? If perhaps they saw how desperately sorry he was, might they show leniency? Draco didn't want to go to Azkaban. He didn't want to. A shudder crawled up his spine. He almost thought he'd rather die than wither in that dark, dank prison.

Draco dropped his eyes to his boots, biting his lip hard and trying to breathe steady and even, panicked, horrified fear gripping him in a vice as he thought of Azkaban.

"I didn't think… Oh _god_, Draco." Hermione's voice cracked as comprehension washed over her.

"I may not have directly killed any innocents, but I was an instrument in their murders. And accomplice, accessory… whatever you bloody call it – I helped others to murder people."

"But you had no other choice!"

_Choices…_

"There's always another choice, Hermione. You told me that."

"I was wrong then!" Panic made her shrill as she stared at him frantically, "He'd have killed you if you…if you hadn't…" Draco looked at her sadly, wanting to lift his hand and ever so gently brush the tears from her cheeks. Her skin he knew would be softer than silk, and chill from the night air. "You never said they would be _good_ choices. But I had choices nonetheless. I – I deserve to stand trial and be judged. _Fuck_. I don't want to. I'm a selfish bloody coward, Hermione, and I really don't want to. I hate…I don't want to go to Azkaban…" Draco said the last in a small, frightened voice, and Hermione visibly blanched, shaking her head, as her cold-purpled lips formed a soundless _no_.

"But it's justice," Draco said. "I can't deny that. And as much as I hope they will, I don't think I'll be let off with _just_ paying what's left of the entire Malfoy fortune in reparations, or even that and probation. I think I'll be enjoying the hospitality of Azkaban." He gritted his teeth. People went mad in there, like his _lovely_ Aunt Bella, who had always been odd and sadistic, but never that…_insane_. People died in there, just…died, for no real reason but the despairing horror of their existence. They stopped eating. Stopped drinking. The ones that survived…well, if they'd been in there too long, they just _lost_ everything that made them _people_. It was hell. But Draco had to accept that it was very likely going to be his reality. He had to accept it, and do what he could to prepare for it. Fuck, how did you prepare for _that_?

By not getting too attached to the present. By not planning on silly bloody dreams but accepting the crushing despair of reality, in hopes your acceptance will make that reality easier to bear, Draco thought grimly.

"You were the one who figured out how to get a Horcrux! _You_ helped destroy it! You've risked your life more than once in just the past few days. The few missions you've been on, you've fought just as hard and been just as involved as anybody else! They can't send you to Azkaban after everything you've already done – everything you _will_ do before the war is over." Hermione argued, reaching for him, and Draco was weak; he let her step forward and lay her hands on his chest, scrunching his shirt lightly in her fists and staring up at him. He could just lean down and kiss her. "They _can't_," she insisted again. "Why not?" Draco countered.

"The Order…everyone's seen or heard about how hard you've fought. They're starting to recognise you've changed. Most of them don't even hate you anymore. Colin is fascinated by you, if a little terrified, and Neville thinks you're all right, Harry might even get along with you if it wasn't for being with me, and – and even _Ron_ doesn't hate you, and –" Hermione was on a stammering roll, and Draco swiftly crushed it. "But I would bet my left hand that none of them will _ever_ like or trust me enough to protest my sentence. They don't _want_ to like me. They won't allow themselves to trust me. They may tolerate me of late, and find me useful, Hermione, but don't be so bloody naïve as to mistake that for _liking_. They're _using_ me. That's all."

Draco could see Hermione knew he was right, and that it hurt her to realise her friends could be so callous. "I don't blame them. Much," he said in a deceptively light tone, "I would do the same in their position." Hermione blinked and stared at him, expression unreadable, hands petting over his chest like she couldn't bear not to touch him. "No, you wouldn't," she said clearly. "Not now. You're better than that, now."

"Well bully for me." Draco was bitingly dry. "But that doesn't change the fact that I'm most likely going to spend a good amount of time post-war rotting in Azkaban if we win. Merlin knows _how_ long. And there will be a trial, first, and anyone associated with me will probably be harassed and smeared and tainted by their association with me, and –"

"Not me. They wouldn't dare. I'm one of the Boy-Who-Lived's best friends," Hermione interrupted, hands slipping up onto his shoulders. Draco shivered under her touch, leaning into it involuntarily, soaking it up. "Maybe. Maybe not. We're talking about the Daily Prophet here, and all its many easily-led readers. Has the Prophet ever been known for its fair and unbiased coverage, even when it came to Potter? They've ripped him to shreds, in the past," Draco pointed out and Hermione's face fell.

"What if I get sentenced to…" He grasped at a number. "Even just a year in Azkaban? The Wizengamot could do that _easily_; it's not an unreasonable sentence considering my…crimes…as a Death Eater." He felt so numb and distant, except for where her hands pressed onto his shoulders, fingers digging into his flesh through his thin shirt. It was bloody unbelievably awful to talk about the bleakness of his future like this, and so Draco tried to be callous and without feeling. "_No_," Hermione denied the possibility immediately. "_Yes_," Draco insisted. "And what would you do, Hermione? Would you put the – the romantic part of your life on hold to wait for _me_? Sit around, knowing where I am and what I'm going through, while you're stuck on the outside? Could you bear that?"

"_Yes_. Of _course_ I could."

"What if it was three years? Five years? Ten fucking years of your life, gone, waiting for _me_," he pressed on relentlessly, throwing the numbers in her face and thinking; _that __could__ happen. I could rot in there for __years__._ The thought made him want to puke on his shoes. "They couldn't do that! They _couldn't_. You were underage when you became a Death Eater! You were raised to it – coerced and threatened into obeying orders. Tortured when you didn't. But in the end you still defected. You're actively fighting Voldemort now! They have to take that into account. They couldn't just lock you up for _years_." Her voice was shaking and so were her hands, one of them sliding up to lie against his neck, her thumb stroking his jaw as she stared wide eyed and desperate into his eyes.

Typical Hermione. Her mind went straight to logical solutions, and generally that was good. And even now, she was right about _that_ – maybe – but still missing the point. The bigger picture. Not just logic and practical concerns, but society and prospects and _people_. "When I get out – or even if I don't get sentenced to Azkaban – I'll be penniless. Dirt fucking poor. No home. No hope for a job – who would hire me? No – no _nothing_. They'll take everything I have left away from me. And your side _and_ the Voldemort sympathisers that weren't sent to Azkaban will both ostracize me. I'll be an outcast. What can I offer you Hermione?"

"I can support _myself_, thank you very much! I don't need you to _offer_ me _anything!_' This isn't the Middle Ages!" Her eyes flashed with anger. Draco wanted to touch her but he didn't, just stood with his arms at his sides and looked into her angry eyes unflinchingly. "It's more than that. I'll be dependent on _you_ I would be a useless fucking _burden_. I would be worthless and _pathetic_ – and possibly stark raving mad, if I ended up in Azkaban for too long." Draco still had some pride. And he wouldn't put that burden on Hermione; he couldn't do that to someone he loved. It was best for her if they weren't together.

Merlin, Nymphadora was going to gut him for doing this.

"I don't _care!_" Hermione half-yelled, the hand that rested on his cheek now trembling. "I don't _care_, Draco."

"Well I fucking well _do_. I'm not – not doing that to you, Hermione. I've _used_ people all my fucking life. I refuse to do it to _you_ too. And I won't let you do it to yourself." He knocked her hands away roughly, moved around her to the door. She gasped sobbingly and Draco gritted his teeth, refusing to falter now. Not now that he'd made his choice. "So what does _that_ mean?" Hermione cried, furious and impotent, and Draco shrugged as he yanked the door open. "What does it _mean_? You're so bloody smart; you figure it out yourself." He stepped inside, the warm air too-warm in his lungs and stinging at his skin. Draco hated himself. He was hurting Hermione now, to prevent hurting her worse in the future. Or that was the idea, at any rate. Was it the right choice? Was it worth it?

Draco _loathed _himself as he heard Hermione choking on her sobs.

"It means you're a fucking _coward_, Draco Malfoy!" She screamed after him as the door swung shut behind him, and he flinched. He didn't _feel_ like he'd done the right thing, even though his brain told him he had. Draco just felt like a right evil piece of shit, who had ruthlessly stomped on Hermione's heart.

Now Draco really had nothing left in the rubble of his bloody useless life. The future was an endless, bleak misery stretched out ahead of him. On the bright side, he could be killed tomorrow, with the missions he did. Draco snagged a bottle of cheap Muggle whiskey from the liquor cabinet and headed down to the cellar. Yes, he decided with a self-deprecating smirk; there was always the hope of a – preferably – quick and marginally heroic death. For now though, Draco was going to get sodding fall-down, blackout drunk.

# # #

_On the Fifth Day,_

Hermione grabbed Draco by the collar, half-choking him as she yanked him back behind the corner. "What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" she screamed in his bloodied face, shoving him up against the wall, adrenaline pumping through her, "Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?" Draco shoved her hands roughly off him, turned his head and spat blood on the floor, "Don't fucking _touch_ me."

Hermione went hot and prickly with fury and rejection, "Don't you dare do this _now_, Draco. We're on a bloody _mission_ and you're going to – _stupefy! _– pretend you don't fucking," she dragged him close, her lips to his ear and continued, "Love me? I bloody well _know_ you do. So don't play the 'don't-touch-me-you-filthy-Mudblood' game with me. It's pathetic." She threw another couple of stunners around the corner without even looking, seething with anger. "Whatever," he growled and shoved himself off the wall, spitting another gobbet of blood and phlegm on the lush carpet of the Death Eater house they were currently fighting their way through.

Hermione glared and squeezed her wand tightly; pulse pounding from more than just terror, but hurt and fury and bloody _irritation_. Draco was being a total and utter bastard, she thought to herself as she darted around the corner and caught a Death Eater in the throat with a slashing curse. She hadn't even been _aiming_. She stared horrified as the Death Eater clutched at their throat, which was pumping blood in great gouts, and then crumpled to the floor. "God…" she whispered, wand slippery in her sweaty hand, feet frozen to the spot.

Hermione was never going to be able to get used to killing people, enemies or not it felt so _wrong_. She didn't _want_ to get used to it.

"Come _on_," Draco snapped and shoved her in the back with his elbow – only hand holding his wand. "You think _I'm_ trying to get _myself_ killed? What do you think standing like a stunned owl in the middle of the fucking hallway is going to do? Fucking _move it_." Hermione blinked and shook herself from her daze, and _moved it_, but as she shoved past him, she muttered, "Arsehole." Why couldn't she have bumped into Ron or Remus or Viktor instead of _him_? But she hadn't, and now it was she and Draco, just the two of them, awkward and awful. God. His legs were longer than hers, and he moved ahead of her, Hermione falling in behind him at a brisk jog, on the alert for the enemy. Her head felt muzzy and ached from a _confundus_ earlier, and it was hard to concentrate.

She had gotten separated from the others when they had met resistance first entering the house – one of the unknown wizards who were allied with the Death Eaters drove her back into another room during their duel, and when she had finally taken him down, the others had been gone. She had been wandering the halls of the maze-like house since, searching for them, heart in her throat as she rounded each corner, expecting to be attacked any minute. And then she had heard duelling and run toward it, and found Draco, apparently trying to kill himself by being a reckless idiot; taking no cover, using no defensive spells, just attack after attack after reckless bloody attack.

She picked up the pace and drew even with him, flicking her eyes at his face in profile. "Do you know where the others are?" His mouth was set grimly, eyes narrowed and sharp, a small gash on his temple. "If I knew, would I have been gallivanting about this fucking house alone?" he snapped and the coldness in his voice made a sick feeling bubble up in Hermione's stomach. "I don't know," she snapped back, "Maybe." He shot her a look that made her feel like a stupid little girl, and she shrank inside, looking ahead at the corridor stretching out ahead of them.

All of a sudden, Draco was a stranger. Hermione had never felt more utterly disconnected from him. Even when they had despised each other back at school there had been more of a familiar connection between them. And now it was like…like he was an alien. Totally foreign to her, as if a great gulf separated them. Just six days ago they had been naked together, and now he was a _stranger_. Her brain had whiplash from the sudden disconnect; it was as though he'd just flicked a switch, and everything had shut down. It felt like their relationship had never existed. Like it had all just been a dream.

Hermione stumbled and Draco grabbed her arm, his wand jabbing into her side as he steadied her. "Sorry," she muttered and he grimaced and put his hand under her chin, forced her face up so he could look into her eyes. Hermione squirmed on the inside as his grey eyes peered into hers, cool and assessing – no hint that he had ever loved her. This couldn't be more uncomfortable and awful. "Are you all right?" he asked; voice cracking slightly halfway through, and his jaw tensed as it did, two embarrassed pink spots appearing on his cheeks.

"I got hit with a _confundus_. I'm fine now though – it's mostly worn off." Draco's fingers were warm on her chin, his wand tickling her ear as he stared searchingly into her eyes. "Blink," he ordered. She did so, looking up at Draco and _hurting_. How could he have just wiped it all out, like he had never ever cared? Hermione supposed that was typical Draco Malfoy, except…she thought he'd changed. Maybe not. Maybe it had all been some horrible, twisted fantasy. Never really real. _No_. She refused to believe that.

"Your pupils are unequally sized. You've got a concussion."

"Anisocoria, actually. Indicates the injury is worse than a concussion," she mumbled, and then sighed heavily. "Well that would explain the splitting headache," she said and skittered her eyes away from him. When Draco let her chin go, his thumb brushed softly over her skin, and Hermione wanted desperately to believe that he had meant to do it. But he cleared his throat and stepped back from her, and his eyes were flint and steel when they met hers again. "But you can see straight? No blurring vision? Nausea? Will you be all right?" He spoke crisply, all business.

"My vision's all right. I feel a bit ill, but I'll be fine."

He grunted, looking unhappy about the whole situation, "Well, you'll _have_ to be fine. I can't afford to be distracted by looking after you."

"Funny," Hermione said, feeling a thrill of defiance run through her as she stepped forward, chin jutting out as she stared up at him, "It used to be the other way around."

"Hermione," Draco warned her, but she ignored him, continuing, "I seem to recall a conversation not so very long ago in which I had to make you promise _not_ to be distracted by my safety."

"_Don't_."

"Why not?" She dragged out roughly, feeling like she wanted to throw up and she didn't know if it was her worse-than-a-concussion brain trauma, or Draco's attitude. Pretending she was nothing to him. And it had to be pretending, because as perfect as his act was, Hermione refused to believe he could just obliterate his feelings for her like that. Draco shook his head in disbelief at her. "Because we're on a fucking _mission_, Hermione. It's hardly an appropriate time to talk about that shit. In fact, no time is a good time to talk about that shit, because there is _nothing _to talk about," he growled. "I understand that you think there is, but trust me – there isn't. There is nothing I want to talk to you about. At all. _Ever_." Draco's voice dripped contempt and to her horror, tears welled in Hermione's eyes. He sounded so _mean_.

"Liar," she accused, brown eyes narrowed on him, impatiently brushing hair that had come loose from her braid out of her eyes so she could glare at him properly. He glared back. "I don't want to talk to you. I don't even want to be anywhere _near_ you right now. Or ever," he snarled and there was a sting of truth in his words. He turned on his heel and walked away from Hermione, wand ready in his hand. Hermione bit her lip and puffed out a furious, frustrated breath, and followed after him. "You love me," she said, and he whirled on her, his eyes frosted. "_This isn't the fucking time._"

"There never will be a right time, though, will there, Draco?"

Draco spoke flatly, "No. There won't," and started walking again, throwing over his shoulder, "Get that through your bushy bloody head and into your addled brain, _Granger_."

She snorted, hurrying to match his stalking, stiff-shouldered pace. "Insult me and call me _Granger_ all you like, _Malfoy_ – we both know that you love me, and you hate every bloody minute of this just as much as I do."

"Well, you got _one_ right. Not the best marks though, hmm, Granger?" He drawled sarcastically and Hermione's anger bubbled over. She seized his arm, dragging him to a halt and shifting herself in front of him, fingers still digging into his arm. "Just _stop_ this. Please. Just _don't_." She had a sudden flash of that horrible nightmare. _Please_. It seemed like she spent far too much time _begging_ Draco, pleading with him. "Stop _what_? I made my decision. I'm allowed to break up with you. And you're acting fucking ridiculously. We're on a bloody _mission_ and you're choosing this time to corner me about why I ended things between us? Look at yourself – it's pathetic." Oh god, that stung. That stung so badly.

"You _love_ me. I _know_ it. You can't deny it," she got out, blinking back tears of anger and hurt – but at this point, mostly anger. "If that were the case, why in the hell would I have broken up with you, then? Would I be doing _this_?" Draco said, all clipped cold tones, not looking at Hermione. "Yes, in fact. You would. You _are_," she shot back, fingers still digging into his arm, eyes trying to catch his, breath coming shallow and uneven. Her head hurt like hell, and she couldn't quite think straight, but she could think straight enough to argue with _him_. "Oh _really_? Well then, please, Granger, enlighten me as to why you think I broke up with you."

"You great bloody git! You told me yesterday – you bloody well told me! You're trying to be some sort of noble idiot! Protect my delicate, fragile heart or some silly shite like that! That's why –"

"Then why can't you just let me do it, Hermione? Why can't you just let me do something noble for _once_ in my fucking life!" Draco yelled, face flushing with anger. He yanked and twisted his arm free of her hand and grabbed her shoulder like he wanted to shake her, side of his wand sliding against her neck. "Why can't I fucking protect you?"

She gulped and met his eyes unwaveringly, forcing herself to speak calmly. "Because I don't _want_ your protection. And your idea of _nobility_ is just a fancy way of taking away my ability to choose for myself. You're being a martyr, and Draco, as much as I love you – it really doesn't suit you."

"Shut up," he grated, and Hermione smiled at him sweetly, revelling in his irritation. "I love you. And I'm not going to forget all about you and be happy just because you've done your very best to tear my heart out and dance a bloody jig on it."

"_Shut up_."

"All that noble effort for nothing," she goaded him, "You can't _make_ me happy or unhappy, Draco. Only _I_ can do that. You can't end things now to save me from heartache later on. It doesn't make any _sense_. I'm still going to be devastated if you go to Azkaban. All that will be different is that we won't have gotten the time together between now and – hopefully – winning the war. It will have been wasted, and for _what_? So you can feel like you're doing the right thing? I think it's not to protect _my_ feelings."

"_Shut up._" He dug his fingers into her shoulder and advanced on her, pushing her back up against the wall, eyes splintered and icy and dangerous as he ordered her – no, _begged_ her to stop. But Hermione was lost in the moment, heart thudding so forcefully it felt like something must be wrong with it. "You're trying to protect your _own_ feelings. You're _afraid_." Hermione pushed her face up to Draco's, scant inches between them, his hand hard on her shoulder and the wall hard on her back. "_Coward_," she called him, and his nostrils flared and the tendons in his jaw bunched, and his fingers squeezed until Hermione felt like her shoulder was going to crack open under his grip.

She licked her lips and his eyes went to them, and for a moment the air was still and she held her breath without realising. His mouth twisted and his eyes were hurt and furious and wanting, and for a perfect and terrifying heartbeat, Hermione didn't know if Draco was going to kiss her or hit her. And then the wall right next to her head puffed in a small explosion of smoke and plaster as a blue jet of light splattered against it. Hermione was too shocked to make a sound, and for a split second Draco froze, his eyes horrified, and then he was shoving her along the wall, placing himself between her and the enemy. "_Incendio!_" he yelled, and Hermione adjusted her grip on her wand and leaned out from behind Draco, flinging a non-verbal _Expelliarmus _past him at the raggedly dressed wizard in the fork at the end of the hallway. He blocked Draco's spell but couldn't block hers in time, and his wand went skittering from his hand.

He threw himself after it, but Draco's _Incarcerous _caught him mid-leap and he crashed heavily to the ground, struggling against the tightening bonds. Hermione gasped, panicky and frantic, heart in her mouth, eyes wide and mouth dry with fear. They had gotten so wrapped up in their own private drama that they had nearly gotten themselves killed. They had been stupid and reckless to such an immense degree that Hermione was unable to come up with a word that was harsh enough to describe the extent of their stupidity. "_Stupefy_," she said, and the wizard's struggles stopped, the magical bonds stopping their efforts to choke him as his body went limp and unresisting. "_Fucking_…" Draco started to snarl thinly but trailed off, eyes flicking to the gouge in the wall. He went white as a sheet, and with his wand at the ready, stalked down the hallway to the restrained Death Eater with Hermione straggling behind, her legs wobbly. So close. It had been _so close_.

They checked that the two branches of the hallway were clear of any more of the enemy, and then Hermione turned her attention to their prisoner, heart still thudding far too fast in her chest. She felt light-headed. So, so close. Just a few inches to the left, and the spell would have killed her – blown a hole right through her head. Oh god. She wanted to be sick and so she was, all over the expensive carpet. Bent over, with her hands on her knees, every muscle trembling with shock as she retched convulsively. When Hermione was finally done emptying her stomach, she heard a thump and a muffled groan and looked up sharply, just in time to see Draco put his boot into the bound, _stupefied_ man again. It was a nasty kick, hard and sharp in the ribs, making the _stupefied_ wizard moan dazedly. Hermione cringed, spitting on the floor and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Draco…" He shouldn't be doing that. It wasn't right. The man was helpless.

"Fucking piece of _shit_. Trying to fucking _kill _her… You fucking _bastard_, I am going to make you wish you'd never been fucking _born_," Draco was grating out, emphasising his words with measured, vicious kicks to the wizard's stomach and ribs. "Draco!" The man may have nearly killed her, but this wasn't _right_. Hermione stepped shakily around the spatters of her vomit on the floor and grabbed at Draco's arm. "Stop it!" she demanded and Draco whipped his head around to glare at her disbelievingly, "_What?_ The fucker deserves it. He could have _killed you_, Hermione." She was apparently _Hermione_ again, and it made her smile briefly, distracted. Draco took the opportunity to sink his boot into the bound wizard again, and then there was a muffled splintering sound and Hermione recoiled. She snatched at Draco's arm and tried to drag him back, and he stumbled back a pace with her. Panting and grinning at her, grey eyes _alive_ and molten with an enjoyment that unnerved Hermione.

"Did you hear that?" he asked as if proud, still grinning, and Hermione raised her eyebrows, gave him a look of bewildered disgust. "_You broke his_ _ribs_, Draco."

"_Exactly_."

"But…" She shook her head, not understanding a thing. The shock of near-death on top of her concussion made her brain feel slow and stupid, and Draco's smile faded, he raked his hand though his hair. "He's _fine_, Hermione. A couple of broken ribs aren't going to do him any bloody harm. He's fucking _scum_. He nearly…nearly…_fuck_…"

"I'm sorry."

"What?" Now _he_ was confused, forehead all scrunched with bewilderment. "It was my fault. I…I distracted us. If I hadn't, we wouldn't have been caught off guard," she explained ashamedly, and Draco's eyes narrowed, as if he was only just thinking about that part of it. Hermione suddenly wished she hadn't said anything. "That's right. We wouldn't, would we?" he said coolly, and then sniffed, took a deep breath, and stared at their prisoner. "Well, shall we portkey him, then?" They had been sent to try to capture several of the unknown allies that were working with the Death Eaters now, so that the Order could figure out who and what they were. Know they enemy. Normally on missions these days they fought to kill, and Hermione thought for the first time about how ruthless they had become. If the Order were to have a chance, it had to fight just as brutally as the other side did, and killing – or at least near fatal wounds – had now become commonplace. Unofficially expected.

"I suppose so," Hermione said as she fumbled the right portkey out of her pocket – a key, fittingly enough, made of bronze and wrapped in a thick cloth so she didn't accidentally portkey herself by touching it. She unwrapped it, holding it gingerly through the cloth at one end, bending down to lay it on the wizard's forehead. His face was dirty, eyes slitted almost shut and dazed, breath rasping. Hermione hoped Draco hadn't punctured a lung. Although she understood why he had taken his anger out on the wizard. At least she had some sort of twisted confirmation that Draco still cared, she thought wryly, turning her face away to avoid the wizard's fetid breath. She laid the key on his forehead, and as it touched his skin, the man popped out of existence. _And_ if all had gone right, reappeared in a makeshift cell in an Order house somewhere in Britain, ready for healing and interrogation. Or, she thought with a grimace, interrogation, and _then _healing.

"Let's go," Draco said shortly, and Hermione nodded subduedly, following after him – this time determined to stay fully focused on the mission. At least it had all turned out all right in the end – she hadn't died, and they had gotten a prisoner. Which was brilliant, really. _Except_, of course, for the part where Draco still insisted he wanted nothing to do with her, she thought bitterly, shifting her wand in her grip.

# # #

Author's Note: So…that's that chapter :) What did you all think? _Please review and give me all your opinions :D _

I know it's rather depressing at the moment (oh I do I love sad, angsty feels), but hang in there – it shouldn't take the pair of them too much longer to sort themselves out. Because this chapter was getting so long, I have split the _Fifth Day_ into two scenes – one in this chapter, from Hermione's POV, and one in the next chapter, from Draco's POV.

_Pop quiz!_ Who can tell me what book by a popular horror author I was referencing when Hermione used the word "becoming" in regard to Muggles? What is the _Serenity_ (in particular, _River Tam_) reference in the first scene of the chapter?

Draco is very pessimistic at the moment regarding the future – but his view of the future isn't necessarily what will happen. He doesn't know, he's just surmising. He's very – extremely – negative about the chances of things turning out anywhere _near_ okay, but that's understandable – from his point of view nothing good ever really happens to him, and so his perception of the future is coloured by his past experiences. In his head, past = bad, therefore future = bad too.

In pushing Hermione away, Draco is trying to protect himself. Mostly he tells himself he's trying to protect _her_ feelings, but she's right when she says she'll be upset either way, so 'protecting' her doesn't work. Pushing her away and trying to end things between them is Draco's way of being a turtle – pulling his head inside his shell and hiding away. If he doesn't have hope, it can't be shattered. At this point, he's telling himself he prefers the bleak plain old despair of _not_ being with Hermione to the uncertainty, and (he believes) temporary high and false hope of being with her. He…wants to lose her on his terms, I guess, rather than involuntarily when he gets dragged off to Azkaban (as he is certain will happen.)

Hermione, for her part, is immensely hurt, but also incredibly pissed off that he is being such a bloody-minded idiot. She _thinks_ she understands why he's cut himself off from her, but then he's cold and awful and she gets insecure and doubts herself and starts wondering if he ever loved her, if he's stopped loving her, if he despises her… She has been utterly mind-fucked by Draco, and doesn't know what to believe any more – or what she can do about it.

And that's my perspective on the character's and their motivations at the moment :)

So, there was also another story within a story (this one completely made up however), which tied into Draco and Hermione's situation somewhat. I like writing these little stories-within-stories. I get ridiculously fond of the characters, and feel like I could end up writing a whole short novella just on them :p I realise the stories probably aren't everyone's cup of tea though, which is why I probably won't do it again (or at least, not more than once or twice, hehe). I don't want to bore you.

I didn't want to make Iocale and Vulpes' situation _too_ analogous, but I wanted the story to be similar enough for Draco to be able to use it to gain some insight/introspection etc. I think I succeeded? I hope I did. Of course, Draco probably took the wrong message from it, but that's too be expected – he's going to see in the story what confirms his beliefs. Hermione would probably get something completely different out of the story that strengthened her belief that they _should_ be together.

As for the little flashback-y thing to Draco and Hermione talking about space and Muggles and such? That was really fun to write. I liked the idea of Draco being genuinely surprised and amazed at what Muggles have accomplished without magic, and by the Muggles' bravery, and I love space and such myself – so I decided Hermione should tell Draco about space flight. But then it kind of derailed and drifted into talk about morality and choices and such, and I ended up letting it drift because, you know, that's what happens in actual conversations… I hope it turned out all right, and fit with the rest of the chapter/was enjoyable.

Just to clarify, although it's indicated with little bits here and there, and not really important anyway – the purpose of the mission they are on is to try to capture some mysterious new allies of the Death Eaters, to try to find out who/what they are, and why they're with Voldemort, what their plans/skills are etc. So they're raiding a Death Eater house where a group of those unknown allies are. It's not really an important plot point, so I just thought I'd clarify here.

Next chapter – the most blood, guts and gore so far in this story, angry sexy pantry happenings, and Fight! Fight! Fight! at Godric's Hollow.

Thanks to people I can't PM: _Alice D_ (Yay! Thanks!), _Iseult_ (I totally agree with everything you said), _GlitzandGlam_ (Jack of all trades :p I like that description, lol). Sorry if I've forgotten anyone!

If you're still reading at the end of this enormous Author's Note, you are truly dedicated, lol. Now go review :p


	30. Seven Days, Part 3: Blackout

_Author's Note: _As always, thank you to all the awesome, amazing, positively _stupendous_ people who leave reviews. My appreciation for you all is boundless :)

This chapter title is the title of the Musesong _Blackout_. And now on to my longest chapter yet; the last three days of the _Seven Day_ sequence; filled with gore, death, Longbottom, decapitation, dirty fighting, too much beer, homicidal bookcases, and last but not least, a pantry –

_Enjoy!_

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_**Seven Days, Part 3: Blackout**_

_On the Fifth Day,_

Draco didn't know where Hermione was. She was somewhere in the madness, but he didn't know _where_ and he really felt like he should. He was currently slumped on the floor in a corner, while Longbottom waved his wand over him, and Draco tried not to bite through his own lip. The air smelt sickeningly like pork. Fighting raged in loud cracks and explosions, and had spilled out of the large drawing room where Draco and Longbottom were into what looked like the library, from Draco's view through the double doors. Draco staggered to his feet, putting all his weight on his right leg, and nodded his thanks at Longbottom, who had just finished the numbing spell. Which incidentally couldn't have worked very well, given the amount of agony that still radiated from Draco's left leg.

"I wouldn't look at it if I were you. Honestly." Longbottom said earnestly, face paled. "It's like heights. It helps if you don't look."

"Shit, Longbottom. I'm not a fucking child," Draco said and rolled his eyes before looking down at his leg. Oh. _Fuck_. The world reeled around him and his stomach rebelled. His left leg from the knee down was a seared mess of roasted skin, the remnants of his trouser leg little scraps of charred material sticking to the crisped, crackled flesh. He choked down bile, head down, eyes shut, breathing through his _mouth_ not his _nose_. He didn't want to smell that pork stench anymore, not now he'd seen it. Maybe Longbottom's numbing spell hadn't been so bad after all – with that amount of damage Draco should have been balled up on the floor shrieking his throat raw. "Fuck, you were right," he said roughly, trying to smirk, trying to be casual and not freak the hell out in front of Longbottom, in the middle of a mission.

"I can portkey you out…" Longbottom offered, wiping his own blood from his face, squinting through it, and Draco shook his head. "If I can walk, I can fight." He took a deep breath, shoved his sopping wet hair off his face, and steeled himself, stepped forward. _Fuck_. His leg nearly gave way under him, and the pain that shot through him was immense; like walking on red hot iron spikes, drumming in his chest, weakening him, clawing behind his eyeballs like greedy little fingers. Draco swung his head around to shoot Longbottom a dazed stare, quite sure that he looked completely insane, what with the blood running freely down his chin where he had bitten though his lip, his grim, bloodshot eyes and staggering, swaying posture. "I can walk," he mumbled through the blood, "Let's move."

Longbottom _looked_ at him for a second, and then sighed and nodded. "All right, Malfoy. You think you're going to pass out or something, _hide_, got it?" Draco's lip curled but he jerked off a nod, saving his breath. Longbottom raced toward the library, back into battle, and Draco hobbled after him. He spat on the body of the witch who had tried to _Incendio_ him as he limped awkwardly past it. She would have burnt him alive if Longbottom hadn't put him out with what had felt like a lake's worth of water. Draco had used the killing curse on her for that; blinded by pain, falling to the plush carpet, but with wand arm out and mouth spitting the words. They had felt like greasy ashes on his tongue, but revenge had been _good_.

Besides, it was cleaner than the way most of the Order members killed the enemy. Bleeding them out, ripping their entrails from their bodies, stopping their hearts or lungs. But never the Killing Curse, because it was _Unforgivable_. Fucking hypocrites. Not that Draco didn't use the bloodier methods himself – he'd killed six people today, in various painful ways. He just wasn't a hypocrite about it.

He wiped the blood from his chin with his forearm and staggered through the library doors. A bolt of orange light whizzed past his ear and he swore and stumbled to one side. Draco's eyes found the bastard who had cast at him, and he sent a barrage of hexes and curses back. Pain rippled through his leg and up into his torso, but his mind was clear enough to duel, his body running on adrenaline that kept him upright despite his burnt leg.

He blocked and cast with sharp precision, his body too injured to be able to indulge in dodging the other's spells, which left him at a severe disadvantage. Draco's mind cleared of everything but the duel, and the constant, biting pain. The wizard duelling him was good, but his form was sloppy, and his blocks just a little too slow, and it took less than a minute for Draco to take him down with a cutting hex to the throat. He had always been good at duelling, he thought, and smirked to himself. They already had one prisoner; they probably didn't need any more. And with the Order's capacity for holding prisoners so low, killing the enemy was almost encouraged. Hypocrites. Draco used a _protego _just in time to block a curse, and reeled on his feet, swinging around, trying to find the one who cast the curse.

Draco's eyes fell on Hermione instead, and his heart jittered and squeezed. She was alive, and didn't appear wounded – not severely, at any rate. Relief swamped him as he dragged his eyes from her and threw up a _protego_ against a curse, falling into the familiar rhythm of duelling with yet another of the enemy. The bastard had been fighting Ron Weasley – and Draco could see Weasley's body lying crumpled on the floor near the wizard. He hoped for Hermione's sake that Weasley wasn't dead, and spat out, "_Sectumsempra!_" at the wizard.

They should really thank Snape for that spell one day; although if they found him to thank him, Draco was pretty sure once Potter got through with him there wouldn't be anything left to thank. The spell, however, was one of the more useful – a relatively quick death, clean death, and very easy to master. Although it gave Draco chills every time he used it.

Remembering the bathroom floor, cold and wet, his blood running out to swirl with the puddling water. Everything going dark, body weak, unable to breath… The wizard blocked the _Sectumsempra_ and whirled back a hex, face a mask of hate, and Draco gritted his teeth as he blocked the hex. The strain of putting weight on his badly wounded leg was pushing Draco past the limits of his endurance, and he stumbled back as he blocked a _Repulso_. Draco snarled with thoughtless fury as the wizard laughed at him, and struck back, growling the spells under his breath; non-verbals spells taking too much energy and concentration, weak as he was.

The room around Draco was flashing with the lights of battle, and Draco couldn't stop himself from recoiling every time a stray spell came anywhere near him. There were only two dim lamps to light the large library, and the flickering curses illuminating the room in brief bursts made everything seem disjointed and surreal. Draco couldn't focus properly on his enemy this far away with the lights confusing his vision; even squinting at the other wizard, it was too hard to focus. He swore and lurched forward, with each step like knives stabbing into his burnt leg, hurling spell after spell at the wizard duelling him. The bastard just wouldn't fucking _die_.

Draco could see Weasley in his peripheral vision. He was motionless still, and no one was tending to him – the mission team too busy fighting for their own survival to see if Weasley was alive or not and get him out of here. His body was so _still_, and in the eerie light Draco couldn't tell if he was breathing or not. He felt unease slither through him as he chanced a glimpse at Weasley's body, and it wasn't just for Hermione's sake. _Fuck_. Draco didn't want the Weasel to die. Now _that_ was surreal. He pressed forward toward the wizard and Weasley's prone body, some vague idea in his head of getting Weasley out.

His wand arm ached. He couldn't keep going. Even with Longbottom's numbing charm, Draco wanted to curl up and cry from the pain. He couldn't fucking do it. Draco's teeth ground together as he spat curses from between them, and his eyes watered, blurring his vision. It felt like a red-hot poker had been stabbed up into his leg through the heel of his boot, and the sensation was excruciating. He stumbled and the wizard caught Draco in his right side with a slashing hex and he cried out and clamped his forearm to the wound, feeling blood trickle down over the stump of his arm. Damnit. He couldn't afford to lose any more strength. He hit the wizard with his own cutting hex, gashing the other's wand arm open from wrist to elbow, but the wizard was relentless – he flicked his wand and sent Draco flying back into something _hard_.

Draco's back thunked onto a hard, rounded edge – the back of a couch? – and his neck snapped back and then forward and pain shot down his spine and up into his head, and his teeth clacked together, catching the side of his tongue and sinking deep into the flesh. He lolled on the floor like a broken marionette, whimpering softly. His back and neck felt like they had been snapped in half by the impact, and his burnt leg was twisted awkwardly beneath him. The pain seared through him, washing his vision dim and splotched, but he had to keep fighting. Draco lifted his head – it felt leaden on his shoulders – and saw his enemy leer at him triumphantly, unleashing a hex. "_Protego_," Draco whispered hoarsely and flinched as the wizard's hex splatted against his shield and dissipated.

Fuck, he wanted to _scream_ from the agony lancing through his body, teeth grinding audibly as he held in his cries. Draco couldn't think straight, couldn't see straight; he blocked spell after spell, forced onto the defensive, mind and body too jarred and damaged for him to have the necessary speed to launch an offensive. His limbs began to tremble from exhaustion, his hair dripping water into his face from the flood of water Longbottom had conjured to put out the _Incendio_. Draco couldn't get up from his twisted position slumped on the floor against the back of the couch while the wizard was unleashing his barrage of spells, and the agony in Draco's trapped leg was eating him alive. His back felt like it was broken.

He couldn't _see_ as mingled blood and water ran into his eyes, and the half-blindness distracted him just long enough for an _Expelliarmus_ to wrench his wand from his hand and send it flying across the floor. Draco watched in horror as it rolled to a halt under an end table – too far away for him to reach it in time. He flexed his empty hand; it felt alien without his wand clutched tightly in it. Alien and useless. Draco stared down at his hand and then up at his sneering enemy, and it dawned on him that he was going to die.

The wizard facing him grinned, a twisted expression lit up by the spells that crisscrossed the library. He levelled his wand at Draco, clearly taking great enjoyment in Draco's helplessness, wanting to see the fear in Draco's eyes. Wanting to see him snivel and beg – Draco could see it on the other's face. Draco stared back at the bastard unblinkingly, refusing to cringe, or close his eyes and shut out the end. Fuck that. Draco wasn't going to die a mewling coward. He fucking _refused_ to. The agony in his body eating him up didn't fade so much as it became _unimportant_; everything became _unimportant_. Far away, irrelevant, distant. This wasn't such a bad way to die; Draco could accept it. At least, he thought with a small smirk, he wouldn't have to go to Azkaban.

_Hermione_, he thought and a pang of regret seized him. The last words he had said to her had been in anger. It would have been nice to die with her knowing that he still loved her – _fuck_, loved her so much it hurt. And then a jet of blue light flashed into his field of vision, toward the wizard who was just beginning his wand flick. The wizard spun away from Draco and dissipated the hex aimed at himself just in the nick of time, and within the same heartbeat, sent another light jetting back. _Hermione_. Draco smiled deliriously. Of course it was. Her hair bedraggled and face unbelievably weary and spattered with blood droplets. Her movements were slow and clumsy, and she limped as she advanced on the wizard, her teeth bared and chest heaving.

Draco's first thought was of his wand, to help her, and he threw himself toward it and froze, mouth opening in a silent rictus of a scream as his maimed leg sent agony like a flash-fire through his every nerve. He gasped, and his vision blacked out, and his stomach lurched, fingers clawing into the lush carpet. "Get it together," he growled, the pain and his swollen tongue making his words nearly unintelligible. Draco _forced_ himself to crawl forward, quick and clumsy and seething with agony. On his stomach on the floor, pulling himself forward with his elbows and pushing with the toe of his boot, tears of pain streaming from his eyes as his wounded leg dragged over the carpet uselessly.

It was only a short distance to his wand, but it felt like it took him forever, and Draco wept with desperate relief as his hand closed around it. He rolled onto his back and sat up, ignoring the pain, eyes seeking Hermione and the wizard and finding them still duelling fiercely; Hermione barely holding her own. Draco didn't bother trying to get to his feet; huddled between the furniture as he was, he was safer from notice and stray curses than swaying unsteadily upright. Pushing his mind past the agony of the half-roasted nerve ending in his leg and the stabbing pains all through his back and neck and up into his skull, Draco aimed the Killing Curse at the other.

The wizard, damn him, somehow sensed the curse and darted to one side, backing up so he could cover both Hermione and Draco. Draco muttered hexes and curses under his breath, and together he and Hermione forced the wizard to go on the defensive, with no chance to cast an attacking spell.

"Ron!" Hermione screamed, eyes not wavering from the wizard, "Draco – get him out!" Draco hesitated. Between the two of them, they could take the bastard down. But Hermione alone? He blanched as just then the wizard cast the Killing Curse at her and she dodged, green light illuminating her face as it shot past her a bare inch away. "Draco! If you don't – I'll – never – forgive you!" she yelled, shrill and ragged, and Draco swore under his breath. "If I do, you might be too dead to be _anything_," he muttered under his breath, but even as he said it he was crawling to Weasley's body.

"_Stupid_. Fucking stupid, idiot girl." He spat the words out as he forced his body to move, trying to distract himself from the agony coursing through him. "Noble fucking Gryffindor," he mumbled through bloodied lips as he reached Weasley, shakily finding the pulse in his throat. It fluttered quick and shallow, and Draco couldn't deny the relief he felt. Weasley was an annoying, dull prat, but Draco didn't want him dead. He fumbled out a portkey and shook it out of its cloth into Weasley's hand, and Weasley's unconscious body was sucked away.

Draco coughed, the muscle spasms racking him with yet more pain as he scrabbled around to face Hermione. "He's alive!" he yelled hoarsely, and Hermione's features were suffused with relief and her wand hand dipped slightly. Distracted.

And a _Repulso_ struck her.

Draco watched in horror and the seconds stretched out indeterminably as he watched her fly back. Like an oversized rag doll, arms and legs flailing, and then she struck a bookcase with a sickening, meaty thud that Draco could hear even over the remnants of the fighting. His stomach wrenched and his breath stopped in his lungs. Hermione fell to the ground, all limp arms and legs, and her forehead hit the carpeted floor hard and bounced once. Oh no. No. Not Hermione. Please, Merlin, _no._

The wizard flicked his wand with another spell and Draco screamed, "_Avada Kedavra!_" But the wizard swayed to one side like he was made of liquid and the spell lanced past him by a bare fraction. The wizard's own spell, a jet of orange light, jetted _above_ Hermione's crumpled form and the bookcase Hermione had been flung against ripped away from the wall and came down on Hermione's limp body. The crashing sound was so loud. _No_. No, no, _no_. She couldn't be dead. Couldn't be dead because of him. His fault. The blood roared in Draco's ears and he saw _red_. _Red_ washed his brain and his vision and his _everything._ "_Avada Kedavra!_" he screamed at the wizard again, struggling to his feet, but the spell went wild as he staggered and he missed abysmally.

Hermione couldn't be dead. She couldn't. "_Avada Kedavra!_" Draco screamed it again as he stumbled towards the wizard, and the other dodged once more, and sent his own green light streaking at Draco, and only his Seeker's reflexes saved him, his head snapping to one side and pain stabbing like needles down his neck and spine. _His fault. _Draco didn't know if he meant the bastard in front of him, or himself. He repeated it, the thought icy sharp in his brain, _his fault_.

The wizard was beginning to panic as Draco lurched closer, screaming the Killing Curse over and over, not defending himself, giving no thought to his own survival; lost in the _red_ that overwhelmed even the pain raging through him. The wizard backed away with stumbling steps; his face paled and lost its leer, and he shouted what must have been the first thing to come into his head. "_Expelliarmus!_" Of all the stupid spells to hit home it had to be that one, _again_, and Draco's wand flew from his fingers. He was close enough that it didn't matter. There were other ways to kill.

Draco snarled and threw himself at the other, hitting the wizard hard and sending them both tumbling to the floor. He straddled the wizard, his burnt leg made of fire that he hissed at but ignored, grabbing a hank of the wizard's greasy hair in his hand and slamming it to the floor again and again, dazing the filthy bastard. The wizard fought back, gouging Draco's arms and cheeks with blackened, grime-encrusted fingernails, but Draco didn't notice. Draco's hand went to the wizard's throat as he used all his remaining strength to keep the dazed bastard pinned beneath him. He jammed his hand down against the wizard's throat, putting his whole weight behind his iron grip, squeezing until his fingers cramped.

The wizard thrashed and kicked and gouged, but Draco held on, and held on, watching through slitted eyes as the wizard's eyes glazed and slid shut, his struggles ceased. It took less time than he would have thought. Draco kept his hand clamped around the other's throat even after the wizard was dragged into unconsciousness, taking perverse pleasure in seeing the other's face turn puce, pressing his forearm hard against the other's chest. Draco could feel the weakening struggles of the wizard's heart beating through the thin leather of his bracer, and a mirthless smile spread his split lips.

Blood trickled over his chin as the cuts opened.

He felt hands grabbing at his arms and shoulders, voices calling his name from far away, but he ignored them, clinging to the wizard's throat. He stared down at the discoloured face with hollow satisfaction. _Dead_. Hermione was dead too. And it was all Draco's fault. "In Godric's name, Draco!" Lupin's voice intruded on Draco's perfect-awful-satisfied moment, and he glared, trying to shake off the hands that yanked at him. But he was weak and the pain was rising in him again like a wild thing, roaring through him from his toes up and making his head swirl. Draco kicked and lashed out blindly as they ripped him off the dead wizard, and as his clawed hand was pried from the wizard's throat, he spat on the dead man's face.

Then he was upright – held up by unseen people, or he would have collapsed to the ground in a heap as his desperate burst of strength ran out. He hung his head, hearing again the sound of the heavy oaken bookcase thudding onto Hermione's limp body. Draco wished it was _him_ lying dead on the ground. He couldn't take it. Couldn't take having nothing. At heart, Draco knew he was selfish, a coward, _weak_. He _needed_ her – even if she wasn't with him, he at least needed to know she was _alive_. "Dead. Dead-dead-dead…" he heard a tortured voice repeating over and over, and realised with a hysterical chuckle that it was him saying it. Snapped his mouth shut and bit down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from babbling.

And then Lupin's voice was rough and low in his ear, breath hot on Draco's skin, "She's alive. Draco, Hermione's alive."

Draco's eyes widened and his head snapped up, and the world righted itself again. A fierce joy seized him, and he shuddered out a breath. He looked around for her frantically, clenching his fist against the stabbing ache in his neck and spine provoked by the jerky movements. And there she was; a battered bundle in Krum's arms, her head lolling against the solid man's chest. Krum held her like she was precious to him, and Draco couldn't help it; his joy was soured ever so slightly at the sight of Hermione cradled so comfortably, so _intimately_ in Krum's grip. He forced the thought away. She was _alive_. He tried to walk to her and stumbled, and Longbottom grabbed him, offered his shoulder. Draco nodded his thanks, gripping Longbottom's shoulder and leaning on him, lurching to Hermione.

He didn't want the others to know about how he felt for Hermione. It wasn't because of secrecy and backlash or _any_ of the reasons they'd kept it secret while they were together, though. Draco just didn't want what they'd had to be cheapened after the fact. Now it was over and done with, he didn't want it dissected and examined, the subject of disbelief and disapproval. He didn't want his memories tainted.

He halted in front of Hermione, and smirked faintly at her, wiping at the blood on his chin. She smiled back, but her eyes were dazed and her two front teeth chipped, an enormous knot rising on the right side of her forehead. "I thought you were dead," he said lamely, and she shivered and nodded slightly, wincing at the movement. "I thought so too, until Viktor hauled me out." Their eyes were locked together, grey on brown, and hers were warm and greedy on his – and also terribly glazed, her pupils unequally sized pinpricks in her firewhiskey brown irises. Hermione had certainly worsened the concussion she'd acquired earlier, Draco thought, and resisted the urge to reach out to her. To stroke her cheek and kiss her forehead.

"It would have been a fitting end for Hermione Granger, bookworm and know-it-all. Crushed to death by books," he said and smirked, leaning heavily on Longbottom. "Very ironic," she agreed, and they both grinned at each other through their pain like a couple of idiots, chuckling raggedly while Krum and Longbottom stared on, puzzled. They always understood each other so well. Despite the issues and the arguing, the differences and the extenuating circumstances…there were moments like these where they connected, and everything was _perfection_.

Draco regretted his decision to end things more in that moment than he ever had. They fitted together so well, the two of them. Maybe they should just desperately scrabble for whatever time they had left together, and face the consequences when they came. But Draco was stubborn, and he'd made his choice – he wasn't going to go back on it now. He'd made the right decision, or so he told himself. Trying to believe it. Luckily – he told himself – just as his certainty was wavering, Longbottom's hastily done numbing spell wore off and the full extent of his injuries washed through him in a rolling tidal wave of pain, sweeping him away. Draco trembled, biting down on his already bitten, abused tongue, whimpering with the agony of flesh seared to the bone, and everything felt like it was falling, and then…

# # #

_On the Sixth Day,_

Draco cracked open a bottle of Muggle beer, sighing as he propped his newly healed but still tender leg up on a footstool that Potter kicked his way. Draco, Longbottom and Krum were out on the long, narrow front porch with Potter, regaling him with what had happened on the mission. It was three in the morning and Draco had only just gotten out of the Healer's care – it had taken four hours to get him healed up upon arrival back at Godric's Hollow. Only a little over four hours ago, Draco had strangled someone to death. He felt unnervingly almost _cheerful_ about it. Draco would have thought there would be something different and more disturbing about using his own bare hands – or rather, _hand_ – to kill someone like _that_, but apparently not.

The sky was dark, and Draco stared out at the stars, sipping at his beer, listening to Krum brag. Despite everything he had been through in the past ten hours, he wasn't tired. His body was exhausted and still in no small amount of pain, but he didn't want to go to sleep. Hermione had been sleeping peacefully in the makeshift infirmary the last time he'd seen her, on his limping way downstairs. Longbottom had swept up out of nowhere, grinning like an idiot, and shoved a bottle into Draco's hand. He'd insisted that Draco come sit out on the porch with the rest of them, and clapped him on the back – which had fucking hurt like hell – and said "You're not half bad, Malfoy."

Weasley was still at the safehouse the portkey had sent him to, getting his wounds looked to – he'd been hit by a nasty curse, and the Healers thought he should be fine, but he was in no state to be moved here. Thomas and Finnegan were off at another location at the moment, and Creevy had been sent off to bed. Which left Draco with Krum, Potter and Longbottom. The latter two he didn't mind so much, but Krum… He glared at the Seeker suspiciously. He hated Krum's obvious attraction to Hermione, but he had saved her life, which both irritated Draco, and made him immensely grateful to Krum. Damnit, he wished he could just dislike the bastard and be done with it. But things always had to be complicated.

"You really fought on that leg?" Potter asked disbelievingly for the fifth time – he was either extremely impressed or getting rather pissed – and Draco nodded, grimacing as he remembered the pain. Potter had seen the extent of the injury when Longbottom and Lupin had carried Draco into the house; sagging between them, half-conscious and sunken in delirium. He shifted his leg on the footstool, annoyed at the weakness in the limb. The healers had regenerated the damage with a combination of potions and healing charms, but the skin beneath the bandages was pink and tender, the muscle weak, and Draco would be reduced to hobbling around on a cane for the next few days. It could have been much worse, though – at least burns were relatively easy to heal.

"I couldn't believe it. If it'd been me, I'd have been curled up on the floor yelling my head off," Longbottom said, admiration in his tone and Draco ducked his head and shrugged slightly. It was so disconcerting having people like Potter and Longbottom being nice to him; preferable to being hated, but Merlin it felt bloody unnatural. "It was a good numbing charm," Draco said, turning the focus off himself and onto Longbottom, who flushed with pride. Draco slumped down in his seat and stared out past the wards that hid the house from view, onto the empty Muggle street, lit at intervals by golden puddles of light from the street lamps. His beer was odd tasting – he far preferred the rich burn of firewhiskey, but it was making his head pleasantly muzzy even as it stung his tongue. The healers hadn't had the time or the energy to spare mending minor wounds tonight.

Draco watched the others from the corners of his eyes as he sipped at his drink, the bottle cool in his hand. Potter and Longbottom were chatting animatedly, like mice squeaking – inane and pointless – the small collections of empties by their chairs explaining the slur to their words. Krum watched them from beneath his beetling brows, interjecting occasionally, always abrupt and near monosyllabic. Draco wished he would just piss off and let Draco drink in peace. Even Krum's mere presence was enough to put him on edge right now. He wished it had been him who had saved Hermione's life, not Krum. Krum had saved her, and Draco had just caused more death. He remembered the moment the wizard's eyes had become empty, bulging out of his puce face. He didn't regret killing the man. In fact he worried that perhaps he had enjoyed it too much.

It was ironic; when he had been a Death Eater, Draco had never directly killed a single soul. It wasn't until he had come over to the Order's side that he had become a killer. It amused him, in a very sad, empty kind of way.

There was a lull in the conversation, and Draco asked casually, "What did the Healers say about Hermione?" He kept his features impassive, his voice mildly curious, so as not to make Krum or Longbottom suspicious. Potter gave Draco a significant look that was painfully obvious, practically _broadcasting_ Draco's feelings for Hermione. Hermione couldn't have told Potter what had happened the night before, between her and Draco. He obviously thought they were still together. A small pang shot through Draco as he wished that were the truth. Thankfully Krum and Longbottom seemed oblivious to Potter's indiscreetness – oblivious to _everything_ except for their drinks.

"She had two cracked ribs, some swelling of the brain and a hell of a lot of bruising. They gave her _Skele-Gro_ for her ribs, healed the worst of the bruises, and brought down the brain swelling. They'll keep an eye on her overnight, but she should be fine," Potter relayed and relief unwound some of the tension knotting Draco's muscles. She had looked so peacefully asleep in the infirmary earlier that it had almost unnerved Draco – she had looked _too_ peaceful. "That's good," he said noncommittally and turned his attention back to his beer as Longbottom piped up. "It's amazing that she didn't break anything. That bookcase seemed so _heavy_, I was sure that…" Longbottom didn't voice it, shuddering, as he no doubt thought it silently in his head like Draco was doing; picturing the awful moment again.

"The Healers said it might have been because she was unconscious – something about her body being completely relaxed?" Potter scratched at his head and then shrugged, "I can't remember. Anyway, she _is_ fine, and that's all that matters."

"It is good to hear she will be all right," Krum rumbled and Draco directed a scowl at his half-finished beer, swinging the bottle in little circles that made the liquid swirl. "Thank you for saving her," Potter lifted his drink slightly, a small salute to Krum, and the ex-Seeker inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Of course," he said and Draco drained the rest of his beer, irritation gnawing at him as it did every bloody time Krum opened his mouth. He reminded himself that Krum had saved Hermione's life, and she wouldn't take kindly to Draco being nasty to the bastard as Krum continued speaking, "She is a very special girl." There was an insinuation in Krum's drink-slurred tone that Draco _really_ didn't like.

Potter glanced at Draco, looking exceedingly uncomfortable with the situation, and Draco smirked coldly at the Golden Boy, arching an eyebrow as he waited for Potter to reply to Krum. Potter pushed his glasses up his nose and agreed with Krum awkwardly. "She is, yeah, very. We, ah, all think she's, ah, great…" Potter stammered diplomatically, bespectacled gaze flickering constantly to Draco. "And pretty too, yes?" Krum asked, and Draco automatically bit down on his much abused tongue and winced at the sharp pain. Krum sounded like – like someone who needed his smug fucking face neatly rearranged. Draco sat still and silent, tension making him taut as a mandolin string; he'd given up the right to shut Krum up when he'd walked away from Hermione.

"Er…I've, ah, never actually thought about her that way. She's just…Hermione. My best friend. I just haven't…you know?" Potter fumbled the words out, fidgeting in his chair, and Krum hummed under his breath, as if debating whether he should speak or not. Silence fell and Draco blew out a relieved breath. If he had to listen to Krum wax poetic about how much he liked Hermione, he might have had to murder him. Potter broke the silence with a teasing comment to Longbottom about finding him a girlfriend, and Draco sighed and tuned the others out. He had no interest in discussing romantic matters with anyone, let alone Potter, Longbottom and Krum. He shuddered at the thought.

"…I don't know… I'm not…good with witches." Longbottom stammered to Potter; Draco unable to avoid hearing snatches and drifts of the other boys' inane conversation. No shit, Longbottom, Draco thought, and chuckled to himself.

The stars were bright tonight; the sky clear and moonless and the air cold, and Draco stared contemplatively up at the twinkling lights, sipping idly at his beer. He was bone-weary and the alcohol was going straight to his head, hungry and tired as he was, but it was nice. It quieted Draco's mind, washing away the blood and pain of the night and numbing the hard edges of his thoughts of Hermione. She was alive; she was going to be all right. Somehow tonight he felt the lack of her less. Perhaps it was because she was in the infirmary – Draco wouldn't have been able to be with her right now whether they were together or not. He could sort of…pretend that they were still together. Shit, he was pathetic.

"Ginny told me _someone's_ interested in you, but she won't tell me who. I bet you it's…" Potter's voice broke through Draco's thoughts and he frowned, retreating further inside his own head.

Remembering how it had felt when he had thought Hermione was dead. Hollow. Like nothing had mattered – except for killing the bastard who had killed her. He was mildly surprised no one had picked up on his unusual enthusiasm for killing the wizard, but then they all knew Hermione was his only friend. And besides, people did strange things in battle. Weasley had related a story the other day about how Cho Chang, before she lost her leg, had once ripped a Death Eater's ear off with her teeth when she had been grabbed by the Death Eater and dropped her wand in the struggle. And Creevy had finagled his way into a couple of missions, and on one panicked when he'd run around the corner into a Death Eater, and stabbed the other in the eye with his wand – right through into the brain. The Death Eater had been killed instantly, purely by lucky accident.

"…It's bloody scary, Harry. I like her, but… What if she says _no_?"

Draco thought that maybe Hermione was right. He had walked away from what they'd had as much for his own sake as for hers. He couldn't stand the thought of being with her, falling more and more in love with her, becoming accustomed to being with her…_depending_ on her. Not when it was all just going to be torn down, ripped away. Or just tainted and fall apart. Draco couldn't see a way for their relationship to survive post-war. He had thought and thought and fucking well _thought_, and he just couldn't see it working out happily. They had a better chance of being together if Voldemort won; except of course, they wouldn't be any happier – being on the run in fear for your life tended to drain the contentment and fun from a relationship.

"Then she says no. But you have to take the chance, or you'll never know. There's always a risk to putting yourself out there, Neville," Potter said, and Draco cocked an eyebrow. That wasn't half bad advice – he didn't think Potter would've had it in him.

"But what if it's for nothing? I'd feel like a right git. I dunno, Harry. I don't want to put myself out there and look like a great bloody idjit when she says _no_."

"That's just life, Neville. We all spend half our lives looking like silly prats in one way or another. Or getting rejected, or mucking things up, or sleeping alone because we teasingly called our girlfriend a ginger and she went off her rocker…" Potter trailed off with a heavy, rueful sigh.

"That's just you, mate, the rest of us aren't that stupid," Draco said dryly, an amused smirk playing at his lips. Typical bloody Potter. The other shot him a half-hearted glare and continued, "The whole point is that you don't – can't – _know_ what's going to happen, whether she'll say yes or no, but if you don't try, you'll _never_ have a chance. Risking rejection is better than not even trying in my opinion."

"I guess…" Longbottom agreed hesitantly, sounding unconvinced, and for once Draco agreed with Longbottom. Sometimes you might not know the future _exactly_, but you knew enough that it was wiser not to try and suffer the hurt of failure. Trying and failing was like someone giving sweets to a child, only to snatch them away again before the kid got to enjoy them. Draco knew Hermione saw it differently; she could somehow enjoy the moment, even knowing that the future would likely be dismal. But then she seemed mostly convinced they could still be together without any problems post-war; stupidly optimistic Gryffindor.

"You must be _confident_. Women like a confident wizard," Krum rumbled and Draco scowled, swilling down half his beer and frowning at the stars.

Draco wasn't as naïve as Hermione. He knew that if they won the war, even if he didn't go to Azkaban – unlikely in his opinion – wizarding society would make their relationship a burden on Hermione. And he was fucking weak; he had lived too long with uncertainty and fear and despair hanging over his head as Death Eater. He couldn't have a relationship with the same shadows of uncertainty and despair cast over it. He couldn't live like that any longer. Draco couldn't be with Hermione – curl up in bed with her, kiss her, play that fucking Scrabble game with her, and think to himself, _I'm going to lose all this and go to Azkaban_. It would drive him insane. And yet Draco couldn't just forget about it and put the future from his mind; how did you try to forget about something as horrible as losing your fortune, being ostracized from all society, and possibly being locked up in a cold, hopeless hellhole?

It was fucking awful, loving Hermione and being cold and nasty to her, pushing her away, being without her…but it was easier than clinging to shreds of hope. Sometimes you had to know when to give up, Draco thought, dropping his empty bottle on the porch amidst a growing pile of emptied bottles. Draco's head was starting to spin, but he snapped his fingers at Potter. "Oi, Potter. Toss me another," he interrupted, and Potter pulled another bottle out of the box by his chair, chucked it over. Draco sank back into his chair as Potter and Longbottom returned to their conversation, eyes narrowed as he noticed the stars doubling and wavering in the night sky. Krum was mostly silent, letting Potter and Neville chitter away without putting his oar in and Draco was glad – the sound of Krum's voice was like nails on a blackboard in Draco's ears.

He started on the next beer. His twelfth? Fourteenth? Draco couldn't remember, and the bottles by the side of his chair were all blurry and muddled. He frowned. About the only thing he knew for sure right now was that he needed to piss - again. Muggle beer was known for that, apparently. Stupid bloody drink. But he couldn't be bothered getting up. Damn. Draco knew he should really just stagger off to bed, but he wasn't drunk enough yet. Since their argument after their brilliant almost-shag, Draco had been having nightmares. They were so many variations on a common theme – losing Hermione. There were so many different ways to lose her, Draco had unwillingly discovered.

The worst were the ones where he killed her. Yeah, those were definitely the worst. Her broken body crumpled on the floor, weeping, begging him not to as Voldemort ordered him to kill her…and he did. Cutting her open. Burning her. Snapping her neck. So _many_ possibilities. _Fuck_. The worst part of the worst dreams, was how much he _enjoyed_ killing her; at least until he snapped awake, gasping and drenched in sweat, sick to his stomach. Draco hadn't wanted to ask Fideloff, the medi-witch, for Dreamless Sleep potion, and while drinking didn't erase the dreams, it did help lessen the awful reality of them, blurring them and making them less…horrifying.

"I mean, I was terrified when I first realised I liked Ginny. I was convinced Ron was somehow going to be able to read my mind, and murder me for having, ah…_impure_ thoughts about his little sister. But in the end…sometimes things _do_ work out."

And sometimes they don't, Draco said silently in his own head, wallowing in bitter cynicism. He wished he wasn't such a coward.

"I would like to go out with your friend," Krum said abruptly out of nowhere and Draco sat bolt upright in his chair, yanked unceremoniously out of his glazed melancholy. Potter looked startled. "Um…you mean Hermione?"

"Yes. I have no interest in the redhead boy," Krum said, seemingly without any intended humour, and Draco couldn't help snorting at the thought of Krum wooing Weasley. "You give good advice to Longbottom, and you know Hermione well. Could you advise me on how to…approach her?" Krum continued in his dull, plodding tones. Draco stiffened and his fingers tightened their grip on his bottle of beer as he noted the hopeful expression on Krum's face as he gazed over at Potter. "I…like her very much. She is an appealing girl." He sounded like Hermione was a particularly fine specimen of livestock, or a brand of broom he admired and wished to acquire.

"Um…" Potter said stupidly, scrubbing his hand over his head. Taking off his glasses and polishing them on his shirt – stalling for time.

"You are her friend – you know her. What she likes and does not like."

"Yes, but I don't want to go out with her, so…" Potter answered slowly, a slur in his voice, Krum's point whizzing right over his head.

"Come now, we are all men here. Surely you could give me advice on how to…er…win her over…" Krum persuaded, and Draco thought if Krum was more expressive than the average fence post, he would be leering and waggling his eyebrows lecherously as he spoke. The bastard genuinely wanted tips on how to get into Hermione's knickers. Draco found it suddenly verydifficult to keep his face a mask of impassivity. The _bastard_. And he was asking _Potter_, as if Potter would be all right with some arsehole just trying to use Hermione.

Draco blinked and experienced a sudden drunken epiphany, and found himself sympathising with Potter's reasons for being so pissed when he'd found out Draco and Hermione were – had been – together. Potter just wanted Hermione to be happy. Draco felt an extremely disconcerting feeling of warmth toward Potter, and shivered with distaste at the sensation.

"I, ah, don't really think Hermione's interested in going out with anyone at the moment," Potter said nervously, and Krum frowned, "But she is no longer… She and the youngest Weasley boy are not…?"

"Oh! No, no, she's ah…focused on the war right now! Not romance. No, definitely no romance," Potter said desperately, shooting Draco an honest-to-Merlin apologetic look.

"Well, so you say. We shall see, hmm?" Krum said arrogantly and Draco sneered, dropping his bottle into the pie of empties by his chair with a satisfying crashing, clinking noise that made Longbottom jump. Potter automatically tossed Draco another beer, and Draco nodded his thanks as Potter rather indiscreetly mouthed, _sorry_, indicating Krum with a tilt of his head. Draco flattened his lips and nodded again, cracking his beer open and taking a gulp. He was starting to become accustomed to the taste, although it paled compared to fine wizarding tipples like _Meershoch _or firewhiskey.

"You and Hermione went to the Ball together, didn't you? Back in fifth year, during the Triwizard Tournament, right?" Longbottom asked and Draco could've kicked him in the teeth for reviving the topic. "We did," Krum answered with a smile as he obviously remembered the time, "It was a very pleasant evening. She was extremely…accommodating,"

Draco snapped, his pulse skyrocketing and anger matching it as Krum's insinuation sank in. "And what the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?" he asked in an icy tone, the dangerous edge to his voice slightly less effective thanks to the slur to his words. Potter winced and Longbottom's eyes widened, and Krum frowned heavily at Draco. "I mean that she was not as prudish as she looks, she –"

"He didn't mean it literally!" Potter interrupted in a high panicky voice, flailing his hands at Krum to get him to shut up.

"No, I didn't. But if Krum thinks it's a wise idea to talk to Hermione's…_friends_ about what he and she…_got up to_," Draco spat the words out like they burnt his tongue, "Then by all means, let him do so and take the consequences of it." He curved his lips into a humourless smile as he addressed Potter, and the Golden Boy couldn't look more uncomfortable if he tried. "Malfoy, I don't think…"

"You are threatening me?" Krum spoke up angrily, brow furrowed as if it had taken him an effort to decode Draco's words. The alcohol they'd all been drinking had gone to Krum's head, and he looked like a furious but dazed bull. "Am I?" Draco frowned as though he was deep in thought, and then lifted his eyebrows, nodded at Krum with a cheerfully sarcastic expression, "Yes, yes I do believe I am."

"Come on guys, we're supposed to be having a friendly drink, not fighting…" Longbottom said nervously, and was roundly ignored.

"I do not appreciate threats, Malfoy," Krum warned, getting easily to his feet, in good fighting condition even after tonight's mission. Draco was at a clear disadvantage. If it came to fists, he was fucked. He was too pissed, too hurt, and too tired. He should just disengage; leave it. Potter's expression was saying that very thing – to let it go, and not goad Krum. "When you understand them, that is," he taunted instead, standing himself, eyes cool and mouth twisted in his trademark, galling smirk.

"Malfoy, Krum…let's not do this." Potter intervened, getting to his feet, and then plonked deflated back into his chair, as Krum and Draco glared at him in unison. "I am not stupid," Krum growled, dark eyes flashing dangerously and Draco shrugged, "Bragging about your pathetic little exploits with Hermione in front of her friends seems rather colossally dim to me. _That's_ not going to get you into her knickers – if she were interested in you in the first place, which I know for a fact she's not." Draco sneered and couldn't help adding the childish lie, lips curled with disgust, "Besides, according to her, you're as…_lacking_…in all other regards as you are in intelligence."

Obviously the insult to Krum's manhood was more than he could take, because his face darkened into a mask of anger. "Take that back!" he slurred, and Draco just grinned infuriatingly, adrenaline and booze making him stupid; "I, however, managed to please her perfectly. Unlike _you_," he added, digging the knife deeper into Krum's wounded pride. Draco wondered with a sick feeling exactly what Krum and Hermione _had_ done. She'd never said anything about her previous experience except that she hadn't had very much at all, and he'd never asked. Draco supposed it shouldn't matter now anyway, but _damnit _it fucking _did_.

Krum growled and balled up his fists, charging across the short distance between him and Draco, his face a mask of anger as he swung at Draco's face. Draco neatly sidestepped Krum's charge, pain writhing up his leg, and Krum's momentum made him stumble full speed into Draco's chair, nearly falling.

"You _cowardly_ –" Krum began as he started to twist around, and Draco casually flipped his half full beer bottle in his hand and cracked it as hard as he could against Krum's temple. Beer frothed out the bottleneck and Krum grunted in pained surprise, and went down like a sack of potatoes. Just crumpled, just like that. He looked so ridiculous, sprawled over the chair, limbs dangling limply. A laugh bubbled up in Draco's chest, and he gave in to it, dropping the beer bottle carelessly on Krum's back and swaying on his feet, snorting with helpless laughter.

"Oh my god. _Malfoy_. You _bottled_ him." Potter said, stunned, and Draco snorted again and clamped his hand over his mouth, trying to stifle his laughter. "He's _really_ not going to be happy when he wakes up," Potter observed, his own lips twitching slightly as he stared at Krum's limp body, draped half over Draco's chair. "No, I imagine not," Draco said, chest straining as he tried to stop himself from giggling like a child – or rather, like the total drunk he was right now. "Is he all right?" Longbottom asked worriedly, and Draco shrugged, "He'll have gotten far worse hits from bludgers over the years. He'll live."

"You shouldn't have done that," Potter said, suddenly serious, giving Draco a meaningful look, and Draco's laughter died in his throat. Did Potter mean knocking Krum unconscious, or... Oh _fuck_ – Draco had said he'd _pleased_ Hermione in front of bloody Longbottom and Krum. Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. Maybe Krum wouldn't remember, if Draco was lucky for once in his life, but… "Ah, Longbottom?" The boy looked at him questioningly. "You think we could forget about this whole little incident?"

"Um…"

"And all the things that may have been said?" Draco prompted, and Longbottom frowned. "Oh, you mean about how you're with Hermione? Oh yeah, no, I won't tell. I knew anyway. It's been obvious for ages," the other boy said lightly, and Draco's jaw dropped, and he felt slightly hysterical. The night took on a surreal air. Potter, Lovegood, Nymphadora, Lupin, and now Longbottom all knew. Draco said that aloud, tacking on sarcastically, "Who the fuck _else_ knows?"

"Ginny does," Potter piped up cheerfully, and Draco spun to look at him in horror. "Whaaat?" he whined plaintively, holding his head as vertigo from spinning around too fast, too drunk, made the world spin sickeningly. "And Kingsley and Wood figured it out, and Wood told Dean who told Seamus, who told _me_, but I already knew," Longbottom added and Draco stared at them both with disgusted shock. "For fucks… I… You… Can _no one_ keep a fucking secret around here?"

"Well in fairness, no one told Ron," Potter said placatingly, adding childishly with a hint of reproof, '_Even though_ he's my best friend and I shouldn't be keeping secrets from him."

"Oh fuck you, Potter," Draco spat in exasperation and shook his head wearily. He was drunk and his leg hurt and his head ached, and apparently his and Hermione's big secret was common bloody knowledge. He felt like shite and the world was upside down, an all too familiar feeling for Draco these days. He knew should probably tell Potter and Longbottom that he and Hermione weren't anything anymore, but he couldn't be fucked. Instead he shot the pair of them a parting glare, and limped away. "I'm going to bloody bed. And tell Krum when he wakes up, not to even bother trying – I sleep lightly."

# # #

"Tonks," Hermione said hoarsely as she opened her eyes and saw the heavily pregnant witch sitting beside her bed. Tonks' hair was striped in purple and orange, and she smiled cheerfully as Hermione said her name. "Wotcher, Hermione. You're awake at last. How're you feeling?" Hermione rubbed her sleep-bleared eyes with one hand. "How long was I asleep?" She felt awful. Hungry, thirsty, sore and somehow still tired, even though she must have been sleeping since the Healers had finished working on her. "It's just after midday – you've had a bit more than ten hours sleep. Feel any better than you did last night?"

Hermione shifted in the bed before she answered, testing her muscles and range of movement – she was sore, and it hurt to breath too deeply, but she could move. She struggled to sit up and Tonks leaned forward, enormous belly awkwardly in the way as she plumped Hermione's pillows up for her. "Yes, thanks. Can I've…some water?" Hermione's mouth was dry as a bone, and she gulped down the water Tonks gave her eagerly, the liquid cool and refreshing down her throat. "You gave everyone quite a scare last night." Hermione smiled shakily, "I gave _myself_ quite a scare." Her smile faded, as she remembered. "I came to when the bookcase came down on me, and my face was pressed into the carpet, and I didn't know what was going on, all I could think was that I couldn't breathe." She gasped in a breath, feeling suffocated by the memory, and her ribs jabbed pain through her and she winced.

"Do you need a pain potion?"

"That would be good, please." Hermione nodded, feeling weak and worn thin and pale, shutting her eyes and sighing – shallowly – as Tonks heaved herself out of her chair and went to find a potion. A few minutes later Tonks pressed a vial into Hermione's hand, which lay slack on the bedcovers. "Here you go."

"Thanks." Hermione popped the cork out with her thumbnail, and drank down the vile tasting liquid, smiling thanks as Tonks held out another glass of water. She sipped at it, washing away the taste of the potion, and ordering her dulled thoughts. What she really wanted was a strong cup of tea. "So how am I? I mean…" Hermione asked hesitantly, and Tonks nodded in understanding, "Two cracked ribs, a rather nasty head injury, and enough bruises to turn you purple."

Hermione automatically looked down at herself; she was clad in a shift and her bare arms were mottled with the greenish-yellow of old bruising, and shiny with the ointment that had accelerated the healing process. "Ouch," Hermione said as she saw the extent of the bruising, and then her fingers flew to her mouth. "My teeth! Oh, my parents will kill me!" she cried automatically, but her two front teeth were whole again, and besides, she remembered belatedly that her parents might never find out.

""The Healers fixed you up. It'll be a few days before the cracks in your ribs mend, but other than that you're fine. Well," Tonks amended, "Not exactly _fine_, but there's nothing more the Healers can do. You just need to take it easy for the next few days."

"So my head's all right?" Hermione felt clear-headed enough now, and her headache was gone, as was the lump she'd had on her temple last night, but she wanted to check anyway. Head injuries could be tricky things – at least in the Muggle world. Tonks nodded, "They brought the swelling down overnight, and everything's back to normal now."

There was a brief silence, and Hermione's mind wandered. "Um, what happened to the wizard who…did this? Did we capture him, or…?" She didn't know why she was asking, but she felt like she needed to know. Tonks made a face, seeming both pleased and uneasy, "Your knight in shining armour took care of him." Hermione frowned. Some of what had happened last night was hazy, and she didn't know what Tonks was talking about. "Krum?" she said uncertainly; he was the one who had rescued her from beneath the bookcase. Tonks gave Hermione a funny look. "_No_, Draco. He went half-mad when he thought you'd been killed, apparently. He ended up choking the wizard to death with his bare hands – _hand_, and Remus and the others had to drag him off the wizard's body in the end. Don't you remember?"

"I was probably beneath the bookcase for most of that," Hermione said dryly, inwardly wondering how she felt about the fact that Draco had choked what he'd thought was her murderer to death in a berserk rage, and yet refused to be in a relationship with her. It was a very unusual situation to be in. On the one hand it was rather unsettling to feel flattered about someone _murdering_ for her, but on the other it gave her hope that maybe she could still convince the stubborn git to give their relationship another chance.

"Good point," Tonks said with a lopsided smile, and then her eyes turned sharp and flinty on Hermione, "Why did you think _Krum_? What's going on with you and Draco?" Hermione worried at her lip, reluctantly saying, "You know how he was avoiding me?"

"Yeah?"

"Well now he's avoiding me permanently."

"Oh Hermione, I'm so sorry. When did he…?"

"A few nights ago. And now he's being horrible and awful and I _know_ he still cares about me, it's as obvious as anything, but he refuses to… _God_ he's so _irritating_." Hermione blinked hard as she started to tear up, and Tonks patted her hand sympathetically. "Did he tell you why?" she asked gently, and Hermione shrugged, nodded, shook her head, sniffling. "He was going on about how if we win he'll have to stand trial after the war, and he'll end up in Azkaban for years, and that it's best if we end things now, and it would never work out…" she babbled, wiping at her eyes and trying not to dissolve into tears, her exhaustion and close call the night before making her emotions annoyingly fragile. Tonks face darkened and she mumbled something about _the little bastard, breaking his word_, but when Hermione gave her a questioning look, she just gestured for Hermione to continue.

"But they wouldn't want to punish him, would they? They _couldn't_ put Draco on trial, not now that he's fighting on our side. I mean he helped destroy a Horcrux! He was instrumental in finding and destroying the diadem – they can't put him on trial as a war criminal after _that_. And there were so many extenuating circumstances behind why he did what he did once he became a Death Eater. He didn't have any choice – he was trapped. They can't put him on trial for things that he was basically forced into…can they?" Hermione said the last two words in a small and frightened voice, eyes hopeful on Tonks' face, and she didn't like what she saw there.

Tonks sighed and pressed her lips together, sat up straighter in her chair. "Hermione…" she began gently but firmly, and Hermione's face scrunched up in bewildered disbelief. _No_, this had to be a joke. Tonks _agreed_ with Draco? She really thought that they would put Draco on trial? Hermione wanted to cut Tonks off before the older witch said any more; wanted to stay in her state of hopeful denial. Unfortunately, as much as Hermione wanted that, she also wanted the truth – wanted to _know_, however much she might hate what Tonks had to say. So she held her tongue and listened with a sinking feeling in her stomach as Tonks explained the whole awful situation.

Some long, depressing minutes later, Tonks fell silent, an apologetic look on her face as she took in Hermione's distressed expression. "But they won't give him _years_, will they?" was the first thing Hermione asked, and Tonks shrugged. "I don't _think_ so. But it depends who the Wizengamot will comprise of. I'd expect that the Wizengamot, if it's made up of who I _think_ it will be, would consider six months or so in Azkaban to be a fair punishment, along with paying recompense, and possibly a temporary ban on using magic."

Hermione ran her fingertip idly around the rim of her water glass, her calm exterior belying the way her heart was thudding inside her chest. Six months, or so Tonks thought. Hermione didn't think that seemed _so_ terribly long; just six months. Half a year. She could easily deal with that amount of time apart, and as for the rest, well, she didn't care about money or the way wizarding society at large would react to their relationship. They could all take a long walk off a bloody short plank.

Then she corrected herself – half a year might not seem so terrible to her, but _she_ wasn't the one who would be imprisoned in Azkaban's dank, dark confines, possibly with – if they returned to the Ministry's service after the war – Dementors draining away any small hope or happy thought. Draco would. It would seem like an age to him. Hermione was ashamed that hadn't occurred to her straight away – how self-absorbed. "Hermione?" Tonks asked, voice gentle.

"I don't care what happens in the future – I mean, I care for Draco's sake, what happens. I don't want him to go to Azkaban. Merlin, I – I really, _really_ don't. But it doesn't stop me from wanting to be with him _now_ while we can. And we can face the future when it happens. We know what to expect now; we can prepare for it, somehow."

Hermione looked down at her hands, embarrassed at just how much she was revealing, but she kept talking as Tonks listened, calm and non-judgemental. "We _had_ something. Something I've never felt with anyone else. He – he understands me in a way that Ron, for example, could never hope to. Somehow…we fit together. We make sense. I never would have believed it before; I hated him, you know. Really, really hated him. But…somehow it works. He makes me feel so good. Alive," Hermione mused half to herself, glancing briefly up at Tonks, and the older witch smiled slightly, waiting for Hermione to go on. Hermione flushed and turned her eyes back to her hands, rubbing her fingers over her mottled bruises as she went on,

"I can have intelligent conversations with Draco, you know. I could never do that with Ron. It's not like Ron's _stupid_, but he just wasn't _interested_. That' s important to me. I like discussing and debating and…even arguing. I like feeling challenged, having to really _think_ about things." Hermione smiled tightly, thinking of Draco, picturing him in her mind and feeling hot and prickly all over. "I love him, Tonks. I love him and he's too bloody stubborn to let us just be together. He's on some stupid mission to make a martyr out of himself. He's convinced himself that he's doing the right thing by cutting me off like this, but really he's just _afraid_. He's given up." Hermione looked up at Tonks forlornly, "I just want to make him see that he's being…an irritating, stubborn, idiotic _git!_" Tonks snorted a soft laugh, grinning at Hermione. "I'm sorry, I know it's not funny."

"It just _annoys_ me so badly. I want to beat him around the head until he actually _listens_ to me and does the sensible thing."

"He's allowed to be afraid, Hermione."

"Well he _shouldn't_ be allowed!" she argued furiously, and then sighed as she realised how silly she sounded, rubbing a hand over her forehead and calming herself with a few deep breaths that made her ribs ache. "At any rate, he shouldn't be allowed to give up. On the mission last night it was like he didn't care if he lived or died. He was taking too many risks, he wasn't being cautious – when I say he's given up, I mean he's really _given up_. On _everything_." Hermione searched Tonks' face as if she would find an answer in the metamorphmagus' calm, sympathetic features. "What do I do, Tonks?"

Tonks shifted on her chair, uncomfortable under Hermione's plaintive unblinking gaze. "I don't know, Hermione," she said at last, looking ruefully down at her belly as she continued, "But I do know that so far, my attempts at giving the two of you advice hasn't worked out so well. So, I'm officially advising you to do whatever feels right to _you_."

"I just think that what we had – what was developing between us – was worth fighting for," Hermione said, mind fixated on the way Draco had just given up. Just walked away. She had called him a coward, but when she thought about worst-case scenarios, he had so much more to lose than her. She wasn't facing the possibility – no matter how slim – of year in Azkaban. She just wished he could see it the way she did now; that in a war like this, when the future itself was uncertain, and death lurked around every corner, and victory was a pale, flickering hope off in the distance… Why borrow trouble from a future they didn't even know would eventuate?

Hermione tried to explain her feelings to Tonks in rambling, halting sentences, and the other witch's face filled with empathy. "You really do love him, don't you?"

Hermione nodded slowly, her mind overflowing with thoughts of Draco, and all the reasons she loved him. "He's a good man," she said, and smiled; a small, fragile thing. But it faded as quickly as it had come, and a scowl settled on her tired face, "But Merlin, I _swear_, sometimes I could just _strangle _him."

# # #

_On the Seventh Day,_

Draco wandered into the kitchen, hoping Mrs Weasley had something fresh out of the oven to devour. Hangovers had always left him starving for delicious, fattening baked goods. Her spicy carrot muffins with cream cheese icing were possibly the most delectable muffins Draco had ever had; even better than what the House Elfs made at home. No – it wasn't home anymore. At the Manor, Draco corrected himself, before…before all of this. When he had been happy, sometimes. He looked around – the kitchen was empty, but the scent of something sweet and spicy wafted from beneath a tea towel on the kitchen table. It wrinkled and moved as he spied it, and he frowned. What on earth had Mrs Weasley made?

He limped his way to the table and folded the tea towel back, revealing a cooling rack piled with something that smelt like ginger, and looked like small men, arms and legs flailing wildly. Mmm. Not quite muffins, but gingerbread would do. Draco snatched up one struggling little gingerbread man with orange peel buttons and currant eyes, and neatly beheaded the helpless thing with a neat bite. Oh Merlin, it was delicious. He polished it off and snatched up another, this time biting off the charmed biscuit's limbs before he beheaded it.

"Enjoying torturing the poor little biscuits that never did _you_ any harm?" Hermione's voice asked crisply from behind him, and Draco sputtered in terror, biscuit crumbs going everywhere. He sucked in a breath and choked for a moment as crumbs went down the wrong way. "Damnit!" he mumbled in strangled annoyance, thumping his fist on the table as he had a coughing fit, eyes watering.

How the hell did she manage to sneak up on him? It used to be the other way around, Draco remembered with amusement, and then felt a wrench of longing and regret. "What the hell are you doing?" Draco began to ask as he turned to face her. And then he broke off and snapped his mouth shut as Hermione glared at him ferociously, the tip of her wand stabbing roughly into his throat. Her hair was loose and tangled, and her complexion pallid, eyes ringed around with dark circles, her breathing shallow and fast, probably thanks to her injured ribs. She looked terrible, and gorgeously _alive_. Draco swallowed nervously as her wand arm trembled; something about her expression unnerved him. "Ah, Hermione?"

"We need to talk," she said grimly, and Draco backed away from the tip of her wand, only for her to follow him until he backed up into the table and couldn't retreat any further. "What, _here_?" he snapped, lashing out in a half-hearted attempt to make her feel bad enough to piss off. Draco knew it wouldn't work, but he did it anyway, because he was hung-over and his leg itched and ached, and he was an arsehole. "We're going to have a talk…at wand-point in the kitchen? Where anyone can just waltz in and wonder what the _fuck_ is going on?" He paused and canted his head to one side. "In fact, what the fuck _is_ going on, Granger? Didn't I get across my dislike for you effectively enough? Or do you just enjoy being treated like shite, _Granger_?"

"Don't call me that, you – you – _you_ _infuriating bastard_!" she whisper-yelled as though she wanted to scream at him at the top of her lungs; but she wouldn't in case it attracted curious onlookers. She probably didn't know that half the fucking Order already knew they had been together, and _didn't_ know they…weren't anymore. Draco took some hollow satisfaction in the fact that he knew something she didn't. It wasn't very satisfying. He wished he could kiss her. He wished he could snap her bloody wand in half and find somewhere to hide from her incessant attempts to talk. She wouldn't leave him _alone_, and it was driving Draco round the bend.

"Language, Granger," he chided, retreating behind his old and always useful mask of biting sarcasm and cool nastiness. He felt like the world's biggest prick as Hermione recoiled, wand tip still jabbing into his throat, hand trembling slightly. She looked like she wanted to repeat what she'd done in third year – haul off and hit him. Instead she huffed and scowled at him, a sharp crease between her brows as she furiously hissed, "You are such an arrogant, annoying _git!_"

"So are we going to talk or not?" Draco sniped, and Hermione just glared at him wordlessly, mouth pressed into a thin, bloodless line. "Out here, then? Put on a fine show for the whole Order?" he asked insolently, and her wand jabbed a little harder into his throat. "Oh for god's sake," she muttered, eyes falling to the floor for a moment, and then darting back up to his. "Move," she ordered, digging her wand into his flesh, directing him to his right.

Draco held his hands up placatingly, "Seriously, Granger. You don't have to _poke_ me. I'm moving, just tell me where to go." Hermione just scowled, eyes hard and wet, and he felt a stab of guilt. He was the one making her feel like shit. God, what was he even _doing?_ He was an arsehole. Draco stopped in his tracks without realising, and his fingers twitched as he fought the urge to reach out and touch her. Wipe away a tear that was about to well over and trickle down her cheek.

Hermione jabbed him again, snapping Draco out of his reverie and he hissed, continuing his backward shuffle across the kitchen to the wall. "Get in," she ordered, nodding behind him, and Draco realised she'd guided them over to the pantry. "What? In the _pantry_?" he asked, confused. "_Yes,_" she snapped and Draco clenched his jaw, bristling at her tone. He used to find it both frightening and adorable, but right now he really _despised_ that snippy, bossy attitude of hers. "Merlin's sake, Granger, what –"

"In the pantry. _Now,_ Draco."

"But –"

"We are going to _talk_, and as you so _sensibly_ pointed out, we can hardly have a private conversation in the middle of the kitchen."

"Therefore, the logical choice is the…_pantry? _That's _really_ how your brain works?" Merlin, it would almost be funny if it weren't so sad and awful. Except it _was_. They couldn't be together, and he had told her why. Spelt it out for her. Made his decision. He wasn't going to torture himself by being with her when he knew it couldn't last. Draco had fucking well _told_ her. But she was Hermione Granger, and so she just had to keep fucking _pushing_. "I swear I will hex you if you don't. You'll be vomiting slugs for a _week_," she threatened sincerely, and Draco glowered as his hand found the door handle and yanked it open.

Her wand was uncomfortable at his throat as he backed inside the tiny, shelved room. It was around the same size as the potions cupboard at Hogwarts, and he stumbled over a sack of something that rustled as she backed him up against the shelving. The only light came through the cracks in the louvre door, and the air was close and smelt like spices and Hermione. Fuck, he wanted to bury his face in her hair and just breath it in. This was bloody torture. He leaned his head heavily back against the edge of a shelf and stared down at her. "What do you want, Hermione?" he asked wearily, and she blinked, frowned up at him. "Oh, so I'm _Hermione_ now, am I?"

"For fucks sake, just hurry up and say whatever it is you want to say, so I can go. In case you've forgotten, _I don't want to be here._"

"I hate you," Hermione breathed, tears springing up in her eyes and Draco cringed inside, feeling like total scum. He told himself over and over that this was for the best, and if she could just accept it then everything would be…not fine. No, everything wouldn't be _fine_, but at least it wouldn't be _this_. "Good," he said briskly, straightening and glaring down at her. "Hold onto that feeling. Fucking _nurture_ that feeling. And piss the _fuck_ off." She flinched and her wand dug further into his flesh as she did. Draco lost his patience. He was sick and fucking tired of her incessant attempts to corner him and berate him into changing his mind. If he didn't want to talk, then he shouldn't have to talk. He wasn't her fucking whipping boy.

"Hermione put your wand away. Now."

"No. Why should I? If I do you'll just go, and avoid me again, and I can't take that I need to… Draco, please, just… You don't understand. Just let me –" She babbled in incoherent snippets of sentences, breathing jagged, on the edge of tears.

"_Now_, Hermione_._"

"_No._"

Draco whipped his fist up and smacked it into Hermione's, rapping her knuckles hard enough to knock her wand from her hand. It clattered to the ground as he grabbed her wrist and slammed her up against the shelving before she could react. She gasped with pain as her back hit the shelves, and Draco swore under his breath, hating himself. Hating the way he felt when she was around. The way he acted. The way he wanted to act and wouldn't let himself. Nothing was right anymore. Fuck, he needed a bloody drink. "_Let me_ _go_." Hermione punctuated her angry gasp with a knee aimed for Draco's crotch, and he blocked it with his thigh, the blow bruisingly hard. "You fucking _bitch_," he said in half-impressed surprise, and she tried it again.

"It's not – going to work – a second time," Draco panted as he succeeded in catching both of Hermione's wrists in his one hand as she struggled. "I'm not fucking stupid." He pushed his body up against hers, trapping her legs with his, yanking her arms up over her head. She was warm and wriggling against him; trying to jab him with her knees and pull her arms down to elbow him. She got one hand free, swearing up a very un-Hermione-like storm and thumped him in the sternum with the heel of her hand, her knee smashing into his at the same time and Draco winced and wobbled on his feet. He unbalanced and fell against her, still trying to grapple one-handed for her free hand.

Hermione whimpered breathlessly in his ear as his weight pinned her, and her hips rocked out and Draco hissed in a breath. She was warm and soft and smelt like the little packet of – cinnamon? – that had dusted her lightly when their inelegant struggles had knocked it off the shelf. She was lush and wriggling, and smelt like he wanted to eat her; if she hadn't been trying to claw his arms, Draco would have had an entirely inappropriate reaction to being squashed up against her like this. He finally captured both her wrists in an awkward but secure hold, and Hermione realised that she wasn't going to be able to get out of Draco's hold and subsided reluctantly.

"Are you going to calm down now?" he asked coolly, and Hermione relaxed, tension uncoiling from her muscles as she sighed. "Hermione?" Draco asked and she answered by pushing her hips out against him again, letting a breathy moan slither from her mouth. Draco groaned in frustration and swore, voice strained as he snapped, "That's not going to work." Hermione shot him a triumphant look and wriggled against him, "I think it already is." Draco swore again. Damnit, she was right. That wasn't fair. It wasn't bloody fair that she could make his body…it was just fucking cruel.

She was doing it on purpose, like she thought giving him a hard-on would make him, what? Be at her mercy? Dull his mental faculties? Make him change his mind about _them_? Fuck, if she thought that then she was more naïve than Draco had thought.

Except…bloody, rutting _Merlin_; Draco really _did_ just want to acquiesce to anything she wanted if it meant he could fuck her. Kiss her, touch her. Put his hand on those luscious breasts; have that hot, wet mouth wrapped around his cock. Strip her naked and fuck her in the pantry; the ideal was too damn appealing. _Fuck_.

Draco bent his head down, resting his forehead against Hermione's. Her breath was warm on his jaw, and Draco tried to make himself forget that he loved her. "If you want my dick so much, Hermione, you can have it. But don't think for a second that it means a single fucking thing to me," he said mockingly, ducking his head and kissing the corner of her mouth, and it was nearly his undoing. Her lips were soft and so warm, and Draco just wanted to bury himself in her. His chest ached and his blood thrummed in his ears.

But Hermione just stifled an angry, sobbing breath and wrenched her lips away from his, twisting her head so that it was as far away from him as possible. "Liar," she accused, and Draco shrugged, outwardly calm but his heart juddered in rhythm with his racing pulse. "So I'll take that as a _no_, shall I?" Draco asked with petty satisfaction, staring down at the shadowed profile of her face. Hermione didn't answer. He thought she might be crying, but he couldn't tell in the dim light. He was a horrible, horrible person. "If I let you go, are you going to try to attack me again?" Nothing. "I just want to go, Hermione. I don't want to _do_ this. _Any_ of this. I just want everything to be over."

Draco hadn't realised until he said it, how much he wanted that to be true. He wanted everything to be _over_. To be able to stop feeling conflicted and guilty and fucking _torn_ all the time. He wanted peaceful, hopeless numbness, which might sound depressing, but was preferable to _this_. Of course there was no way he was going to get it. Not with Hermione around. It was impossible; his scuffle with Krum had proved that. Draco wouldn't let himself be with her, but he couldn't stand anyone else having her either. Merlin, what a fucking mess.

"I hate you," she said in a tiny voice, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. She meant it, and it hurt. Draco knew she loved him too, just like he loved her; but Hermione still meant the words she had let slip. "I hate you too," he answered softly, leaning down to murmur the words in Hermione's ear in mimicry of a lover's whisper. She bucked against him as his lips brushed her skin. "Don't _mock_ me!" Her head snapped sharply forward and Draco gasped and saw stars as Hermione's forehead connected with his.

"_Shit_. You fucking _head butted _me." His maimed arm went up to his forehead, rubbing it and blinking hard. So maybe Draco _hadn't_ restrained her as well as he'd thought; he readjusted his grip and pressed firmer against her. She growled under her breath. "You're an –"

"Evil, loathsome little cockroach?" he inquired sarcastically, shades of third year, and her bare heel stomped on his booted toes – having no effect at all. "_Yes_," Hermione wriggled to no avail, all four limbs thoroughly pinned, and hissed up at him, "And a cowardly, horrid, _pathetic_ excuse for a human being!"

"Well you're a fucking pain in the arse," he snarled in return, and she buried her face against his chest and _bit_ him.

# # #

_Author's Note: _Sorry about the cliffhanger…the chapter was just getting way too long again :p But I _can_ tell you that the angst is drawing to a close (for a while, at least – the angst always comes back to life in one form or another. Ooh, zombie angst, hehe).

I was struggling with the worst writer's block I've had in a long, long time in this chapter – I can't help but worry it affected the quality (writer's block also tends bring out my weird, off-the-wall, possibly very un-funny brand of humour, which I think comes through slightly in the drinking scene with the boys, and the last scene) but fingers crossed you all enjoyed the chapter despite my block :)

I'm too damn tired to do one of my long, rambling author's notes this time, so I'll just say pretty please _review_, my lovelies, and I will see you all next chapter :D


	31. New Ways to Fall Apart

_Author's Note:_ I'm _so _sorry about the delay with this chapter. I wanted to write it one way, and it kept writing itself this way. I'm still not entirely sure about how it's turned out. I like it well enough, but I fear the tone of it may be a bit…rough…for some of you? It's, um,. Erotically angsty? The other reason it took ages to churn this out is because my wisdom teeth have decided to come through. Yay :| My mouth is like a big ball of pressurised pain as the teeth of evil try to shove their way into jaws that _do not fit them_, which does not help my muse in the slightest. Hopefully I should be getting them out in the next few weeks, depending on _factors_, and then I should be back to whatever passes as my normal :D Until then though, updates may be a bit slower in coming.

In other news, _YAY_ this story has made it past 300 reviews! Ohmigod I am all aflutter with happiness :D Thank you _so much _to everyone who has reviewed; you guys are what make writing this story rewarding and worthwhile, and so much fun. So thank you! I have my fingers crossed it'll get to 400 before the story wraps up :p

This chapter opens with a scene that isn't exactly heavily sexually _explicit_ IMO, but deals with sexually explicit concepts, if that makes sense. As I said before, um, erotic angst would be the way I'd classify it, I guess. I am also pleased to tell you, that next chapter will be the last of the angst for a while :D So people who like happiness, rejoice! The chapter title is from the song _We Are Young _by Fun.

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**New Ways to Fall Apart**_

_She growled under her breath. "You're an –"_

"_Evil, loathsome little cockroach?" he inquired sarcastically, shades of third year, and her bare heel stomped on his booted toes – having no effect at all. "Yes," Hermione wriggled to no avail, all four limbs thoroughly pinned, and hissed up at him, "And a cowardly, horrid, pathetic excuse for a human being!"_

"_Well you're a fucking pain in the arse," he snarled in return, and she buried her face against his chest and __bit__ him._

Hermione felt the hysterical urge to laugh as Draco yelped with pain and tried to recoil from her without letting her wriggle free. She stared up at him, glaring and furious. How did everything always go so terribly wrong? Her breath came in short gasps, and between her ragged breaths and his weight crushing her against the shelves, her ribs ached and her half-healed bruises throbbed. She had just wanted to talk to him. Okay, so maybe holding him at wand-point had been going too far, but between the pain potion she was dosed up on, and her desperation, it had _seemed_ like a foolproof solution. Draco couldn't run away if she had him at wand-point, could he?

No, but he could be a horrid, cruel arsehole to her in his frustrated anger. Good thinking, Hermione, she congratulated herself sarcastically. He cracked her wrists against the edge of the shelves, grey eyes narrowed and dark in the dim pantry, "Don't _fucking_ do that." Hermione's own frustration seethed inside, and her face contorted with stifled sobs of anger and hurt. "Don't tell me what to do!" she retorted, her voice thin and wavery with tears, and bit him again. Or tried to, rather. Draco brought his forearm up to her throat, and she half-choked herself on it as she whipped her head forward, gasping in strangled surprise as her throat met his bony bloody arm. "Don't fucking bite me," he snapped and Hermione let her head fall back against the edge of a shelf, his arm following it, resting gently at the base of her throat to remind her not to try it again.

There was silence for a moment. Hermione subtly tested Draco's hold on her. His hand held her wrists crushed together, stretched high over her head, and his grip was like iron. His legs bracketed hers, and _technically_ she couldknee him in this position, but his reflexes were quicker than hers. Hermione admitted it to herself reluctantly; she was stuck. She sighed and met his eyes; frosted over with cold anger. "I love you," she tried in a small voice, cheeks flushing hot for some absurd reason. She was irritated and frustrated with him beyond all reason, but she did love him. Draco flinched; his lips twitched and the muscles in his jaw bunched, his grey eyes somehow turned raw and wounded. She kept going, "I do. I love you. And I know you love me. But you keep doing this stubborn, stupid, cowardly –"

He turned his head away, cool and distant. "Please don't do this, Hermione."

"But, Draco…" Hermione didn't know what to say. She just wanted him to _understand_. If he would just _listen_ to her, just give her a chance to explain the way she saw things. If he could just try to see it from her perspective… But he was so bloody stubborn. Just like Ron, she realised, and made a note to never, _ever_ tell Draco he was even remotely similar to Ron. She could just imagine his explosive reaction to _that_.

"I made my fucking choice." Draco sounded hard and hurt at the same time, an edge of the old Malfoy nastiness in his tone.

"It's the wrong choice."

"You don't get to decide that," he said coldly, and Hermione shrugged as much as she could with her arms wrenched above her. "At this point I honestly don't care what you think I get to decide or not, Draco."

"Obviously," he said in a dry, cracked voice; brittle and ashes, and Hermione felt anger flash up again. "I'm not going to let you ruin everything because you're blinded by some possible future that might not even _happen_," She cried and stomped on his foot, trying to drag her arms from his grip, but he held her implacably. "Stop bloody well doing that; I'm not letting you go until you swear to leave me alone," he told her in that horrible, distant voice, and Hermione growled with frustration. "Well I'm not going to leave you alone until you stop being an idiot. You're – you're stubborner than _Ron!_" Well, her resolution not to bring _that_ up didn't last long.

"I am _nothing _like Weasley!" Draco snarled back instantlyand Hermione huffed, "No. You're _not_. _He's_ more reasonable than you are."

"You're the unreasonable one, Hermione." He said crisply, eyes bright and cold on hers. "I've made my decision. I've told you I don't want anything to do with you anymore, and yet you won't leave me the hell alone. What do I have to fucking _do_ to get you to piss off?"

"You love me," Hermione said weakly, as if saying that would miraculously fix everything. It didn't. Of course it didn't.

"It doesn't fucking matter. I can't be with you. This – us – it isn't going to work. And I would rather not waste my fucking time and energy on something I know is going to fail," Draco snapped back, and Hermione felt like slapping him. He was so bloody _convinced_ that they couldn't work out. All based on some future that might not even happen. So many things could happen between then and now, but he was blinded to that, utterly fixated on trials and Azkaban and not being able to get a _job_ because wizarding society would make him outcast. A _job_. It was ridiculous, and Hermione was over it.

"I could have died last night. So could you, for that matter. Why are you worrying about going to _Azkaban_? First we have to survive past the war, not to mention win it. Draco, if you insist on being pessimistic, then you should acknowledge that the possibility of us having any future at _all_, together _or_ apart, post-war is low enough that there's no _reason_ for you to worry about what will happen to you when it's over." She tried to get through to him, but Draco's eyes slid away from hers, his fingers flexing around her wrists, his body hard and warm and distracting on hers. He was silent and smelt like soap, sweat, and burn cream; Hermione wanted to bury her face against Draco's chest and kiss where she'd bitten him. Breathe him in. His eyes were sunk in those shadows of exhaustion and strain the war imposed on nearly everyone, and Hermione just wanted him to be _reasonable_.

She wanted things to be the way they were, she thought pathetically, and her lips quivered as she held back a sudden rush of tears. She just wanted things to be the way they were before.

"You're making me miserable. You're making _yourself_ miserable. You're not achieving what you wanted to, Draco."

"And what are you trying to achieve with _this_, Hermione? _More_ misery? I'm not changing my mind, so all you're doing is stretching this out. Making it hurt more than it has to." He took a deep breath and shifted his forearm a little lower, resting it across her collarbones. "Lots of people who love each other don't work out. Just because two people are in love, it doesn't mean they're meant to be together. Sometimes it just doesn't work." He sounded like he was reciting from rote; something he'd beaten into his head until he almost – but not quite – believed it. His voice was a monotone, and his eyes slid away from hers again, unable to hold her gaze. "You need to let it go, Hermione. I'm not going to change my mind. Just let it go so we can both move on."

"You're an arsehole," Hermione snapped at him, lips still trembling and eyes stinging with tears she refused to shed.

"No. In fact, I haven't started being an arsehole yet, _Granger_," Draco bit out icily, fingers clamping down harder on her wrists and making her squeak as the movement pulled painfully on her shoulders. "Would you like me to?" he asked, as if he was inquiring whether she would like a cup of tea, and she made a face at him, sniping, "It would be preferable to the hopeless, moping, monotone lump you're acting like now," and bashed him awkwardly in his injured leg with her shin.

"Merlin, stop _doing _that, Hermione!"

"Stop being a horrid, mean, git then!"

"Leave me alone and I will," he snarled, and Hermione twisted in his grip, her shoulders starting to cramp and sending shooting pains up to her fingers. She swore at him and tried to stomp on his toes and he laughed at her efforts, the sound nasty and horrible, like the Malfoy of times long past, infuriating her even more.

"Let me go, you _arse_!"

"No," Draco sneered, eyes cold and furious and wounded all at once.

"I hate you!" Hermione choked out, and Draco snorted at her angry, stammering incoherence. "You wanted me to be an arsehole, Hermione. Well I'm fucking well being one."

"I don't know why you're _doing_ this!" she hissed, overflowing with frustration, "It doesn't make any sense; this is making me more miserable than seeing you taken to Azkaban _ever _could."

Draco's face went blank and hard, and his eyes were hard and jagged in his white face. "You don't get to say that, when no one you love has ever been taken to Azkaban. You have no _idea_ what it feels like to see someone you love dragged off to rot in there. I do. I saw my father –"

"Oh don't you _dare_ try to use that to shut me down! Don't you _dare_! It's an entirely different situation! Your father –"

"Came out of Azkaban half-mad! So bloody crazy he chopped off my bloody hand! And my mother cried almost every day that he was in there. She was a _wreck_. She still hasn't gotten over –"

"I'm not your damned mother!"

"No, you're not. You're just a fucking mudblood _bitch_," Draco spat out, and Hermione gasped in hot, thoughtless fury, thrashing against him, trying to get free so she could slap him for that. He knew what that word meant to her – _Mudblood_. Damnit, he'd seen the scars, and he bloody well knew how they made her feel, and he'd just thrown that at her anyway. Well if he was going to try to hurt her, she would return the favour, she thought, as she struggled to yank her arms free, and failed. _Somehow_ she would bloody hurt him for that. And then his arm, which still lay just below her throat, slid up during her struggles, and without thinking Hermione tucked her chin in so she could sink her teeth into it; hard enough to break the skin. Draco yelped and jerked it away, his grip on her wrists slipping enough for her to pull them free.

"You _bastard!" _Hermione hissed at him, her hand whipping out to slap him. Draco caught her wrist and she so slapped him with her left hand; not as hard as she could with her right, but still hard enough to make a sharp cracking sound, and leave his cheek blossoming with red. He hissed at the pain, and recoiled a step. Reddened cheek dark in the dim light coming through the louvre door, expression shocked, her arm still clamped outstretched in his too-hard grip. She glared at him, "You _bastard_." And then her expression crumpled, " You know how much… How could you _say_ that?"

Draco stared at her silently, pressing his free arm against his cheek, no apology or even regret in his features at all, and she really _did_ hate him. Hermione lifted her chin, and in a voice filled with hot contempt, said, "Well you're just a fucking cowardly, child-murdering Death Eater. How do _you_ like it?" And then she saw his face, his whole demeanour change, and she had thought he had been furious before, but this – this was hate. Real hate, and Hermione realised Draco had never truly hated her until right at this moment. She shrank back from him, eyes wide and frightened, and thought with sudden panic that perhaps she had gone too far, gone too fucking far, but it was too late. You couldn't take back something like that.

Draco shoved Hermione back against the pantry shelves, making her gasp in shock, and then hurt, as her cracked ribs flared with pain and her shoulders ached. He crossed the scant space between them with cold eyes, the tendons in his neck standing out and his mouth a tight sneer, and for a dizzying second Hermione thought he was going to murder her in the pantry and part of her found that idea hysterically funny. And then his head bent down to hers and he was kissing her. Kissing her. Hermione's lips parted on instinct as his mouth met hers rough and hard – all icy, hateful anger, as if he was trying to hurt her. Draco's hand tangled in Hermione's hair and yanked at it until her scalp stung, forcing her face to tilt upwards more, nipping at her bottom lip, tongue sliding slick and hot over hers.

Hermione whimpered at the pain but her hands went up to Draco's shoulders, fingers digging in hard and locking him to her, kissing him back just as rough, just as hard. This was better than dispassion, better than saying awful things to each other, better than a horrible gulf stretching between them. It was messy and frantic and angry, and their teeth clashed, and Draco kept pulling her hair until her scalp hurt and ached but it was still better than before. Despite the pain mingled with the pleasure, it was shudderingly good, and Hermione arched against Draco's body, hooking her leg around his thigh, the edge of the shelves digging into her at intervals from her shoulders to her thighs.

His right arm was locked around her waist, and she could feel his cock pressing against her, a hard, hot bulge trapped in his jeans. She pulled her mouth away to gasp for breath and her poor, abused ribs protested, and so did Draco, grey eyes silvered and greedy as he used her hair to force her mouth back to his. Hermione scraped her fingernails down Draco's neck hard enough to gouge the skin in retaliation, and he winced and bit down on her tongue – not hard enough to draw blood but it felt bruisingly hard and tears sprang to her eyes.

She dragged her mouth away from his, "Don't do that!" she whined breathlessly, her hand going to her mouth. "Fuck you," he snarled, and pulled her hand away from her mouth, kissed her again. But he let go of her hair, smoothing his hand almost tenderly over the fluffy, wild locks, and Hermione shivered as heat flared in her belly and her womb clenched with arousal, the small gesture in the midst of his anger making her pathetically grateful. Draco placed wet, sucking kisses on the corner of her mouth, her jaw, nuzzling her ear and tracing the shell of it with the tip of his tongue, and Hermione shivered, delicious tingles running down her spine.

Then Draco nipped her earlobe hard, and Hermione's tingling pleasure was replaced with a brief shock of pain. And somehow that made it _better_. The juxtaposition of pain and pleasure enhanced every touch, making Hermione flinch and moan and melt as desire coiled hot in her belly and made her slick and wet enough to soak her knickers. She buried a hand in Draco's white-blond hair and tried to twine her fingers in it, clutched at his shoulder with the other, pushing up on tiptoes and capturing his mouth. He was so hot, and his arm was hard around her, and he was making small angry, wanting sounds as she tried to wrap herself around him, sucking on his tongue and rolling her hips out against him.

He was so angry, so rough, and Hermione felt helpless in the face of his emotions. Once at the seaside as a child, Hermione had been dragged under the water by a churning, roiling wave; pulled down and tumbled like a rag doll, lungs bursting for air, head spinning. She felt almost like that now. Except that Draco was giving her pleasure, not trying to drown her, she thought muzzily, fingers grasping hungrily at him. She felt like she could kiss him forever, even like this when it was jagged with hate and hurt as much as it was good.

Hermione let her head fall back as Draco broke their kiss and nuzzled her throat, muttering low, indistinct words. Her fingers combed through his hair as she moaned at the ticklish pleasure of his lips at her throat, and she went as boneless as she could without falling down. "Hate…fucking _bitch_…" she caught the words and her stomach flipped unpleasantly. Hermionewasn't really angry anymore; _she_ was lost in the feel of him touching her, kissing her, soaking it up and wanting more. Her anger had melted away somewhere in the exquisite mess of hair-pulling, biting, and rough snogging. But Draco was still spiky with anger, still seething and furious and taking it out on her in the most confusing way possible. Hermione wanted him not to be angry. She wanted…

"I'm sorry," she whispered and Draco buried his face in the curve of her neck and mass of her hair, his shoulders tense under her soothing hands. He let out a hot breath and her skin prickled into goosebumps. "Fuck you," he rasped, "You called me a child killer. You used that against me, _again_. You don't get to say fucking _sorry_ for that and expect everything to be okay."

Hermione felt shame bubble up and her face heated with a blush, her heart skittered. "You called me a Mudblood!"

"You are," he snapped heartlessly, and she flinched like he'd struck her. "And you _didn't_ murder children? You didn't hand them over to Greyback for him to do god knows what unimaginably awful things to them, before he killed them?"

"I hate you," he said softly and Merlin, Hermione thought they'd told each other they hated each other almost more than they'd ever said they loved each other. She felt sick and brittle, and when instead of pulling away like she thought he would, Draco kissed her again, she only felt worse. His hand ran over her breasts through her shirt, scraping over where her nipples peaked inside her bra and sending a twinge straight down to her pussy, making her slick flesh twitch and her clit throb hard with the need to be touched. She moaned despite herself, and he kissed her mouth lightly, staring into her eyes, a humourless smile shaping his mouth.

Oh god, this wasn't good anymore. Except Hermione made no move to pull away. As much as this had suddenly turned sour and tainted, she _wanted_ it; she _craved _it. Draco slipped his hand down between their bodies and pressed it hard against her mound through her jeans. Long fingers curling around, hand sliding so that the heel of his hand rubbed her clit against the seam of her jeans, and Hermione's body responded with waves of sharp, desperate arousal even though _she _felt flushed and awful and ill. Draco was kissing her mouth as he pressed his hand rhythmically against her; not snogging, but brief, hot, open-mouthed kisses, his tongue dipping into her mouth and making her whimperingly greedy for more.

Hermione grabbed at the edges of the shelves and a jar of something fell to the floor with the sound of breaking glass that they both ignored. She was so close, so _close_ just from him touching her through her jeans, and she rocked shamelessly against Draco's hand, moaning loudly – too loud but she was too lost in the sensations he dragged out of her body to remember where they were. And then Draco pulled his hand from between her legs and Hermione mewled and whined in protest, grabbing at him, at his hand, trying to force it back against her clit, fumbling with her jeans button and popping it free, shoving his hand down her knickers.

"No," he growled in her ear and she gasped and relented, that one word enough to melt her. Draco tugged his hand away from hers, and encircled her throat loosely in mimicry of a stranglehold. Hermione could feel her pulse fluttering against Draco's hand, and the sensation of him holding her like that…knowing he could hurt her if he wanted…was strangely, intensely, arousing. She mewled helplessly as his tongue grazed teasingly light over hers and then his fingers gripped her throat and began to tighten ever so slowly. What was he doing? He wasn't going to…? Murder in the pantry, she thought dizzily again, and her blood began thudding heavy and sluggish in her ears as his grip started to constrict.

A thrill of delicious fear tingled ran molten through Hermione's body, and she tried to moan, his hold on her throat strangling it.

"Dra – I – I –" Hermione couldn't seem to form words with his hand so tight around her throat, and she was getting light-headed; her lungs couldn't get enough air. And she yet was throbbing and aching for him even more than before, and she whined with need and her hips jerked outward involuntarily as his tongue laved slowly over her parted lips. Hermione was too busy struggling for breath to be able to kiss him back, but every swipe of his tongue made her quiver and twitch and _want_ him. "Please…I need – need…" she begged, aching with the need for him to just rip her pants down and shag her, and Draco smirked. "Touch yourself," he murmured in her ear, an arrogant demand, and his fingers convulsed around her throat.

Hermione experienced a sudden moment of perfect clarity.

_Touch yourself._ The two words reverberated in Hermione's head and she froze, suddenly seeing the two of them, as if she was an outside observer and not locked in Draco's grip, struggling for breath. The pair of them in the pantry up against the shelves of tins and cereals, with Draco choking her as she whined and tried to beg him to take her bloody _virginity_. Here, now, like _this_, after they'd just told each other how much they hated each other, said awful, horrible things. God, what on earth was she _doing?_ What was she _thinking?_ "Dr – Draco…please." Hermione shoved at his chest, tried to pry at his fingers, thinking over and over how _sordid_ this was, how awful and low and _wrong_.

This wasn't her. This wasn't how she wanted to have sex for the first time. Oh god, she hadn't even cast a _Muffliato_ when they'd come in – anyone who came into the kitchen would be able to _hear _them. "Draco!" she gasped and thumped him on the chest hard, "Stop!" He blinked dazedly, still caught up in the heady lust Hermione had been lost in too just a moment ago, but his fingers slackened around her throat. She pushed him back from her, fingers desperately scrabbling to do her jeans up, breath rasping in her ears and heart pounding like a frightened rabbit's.

"What am I _doing?_" she asked herself, panicking. She didn't understand this situation; she didn't understand what had just happened. It was completely outside anything Hermione had ever experienced, and she was terrified by what they had done. By what could have happened if she hadn't snapped to her senses when she had.

"Hermione." Draco said her voice like he was waking from a dream, and she shivered with want and fear that soured to sickness in her stomach. "What were we _doing?_" Hermione asked again frantically, staring wild-eyed at Draco as her hand went unconsciously to her throat, brushing over the tender skin. She was panicked and her mind felt hazed with lust and oxygen starvation, and her breath burnt in her throat and made her ribs hurt with each gasp. Draco just stared at her. Just _stared_, looking as dazed as she felt. His lips were kiss-swollen and darkened in the low light and parted with shocked confusion, and his hair was falling in his eyes. He always looked so horribly, awfully gorgeous, and Hermione felt a squirming, clenching feeling of desire, which now that it was unwelcome, only made her feel sickened and disgusted.

She was frantic and near tears, and her traitorous body still thrummed with her want for Draco. Hermione _hated_ that lack of control, _hated_ the fact that she couldn't just switch off the feelings that had been sparking between them. What had they _done?_ Her hands smoothed through her hair aimlessly, her mind racing with incoherent bits of thought, trying to make sense of what had happened. How did they go from hate, from _despising_ each other, to…what they had been doing? Hermione felt dirty, tainted somehow. "You…you…why?" she asked him, voice shaking and sharp. But she couldn't blame him for all of it, and in her head she was repeating the question to herself – why did she let him do it? Why did she enjoy it? Why, why, _why?_

Draco ran his hand through his hair, retreating unsteadily to the other end of the narrow pantry and staring at her, grey eyes dazed and filled with the same distress and lack of comprehension that Hermione felt. "I – did I – _fuck… _Did I hurt you?" Draco asked, aghast at the possibility; concern and fear for her mingled with the other emotions on his face, and Hermione couldn't stand to look at him. After everything that had happened, she couldn't look at Draco and see his horror at the thought that he had hurt her. Why had he _done_ it if the idea upset him so much? "Yes," she said and didn't just mean the tenderness on her throat that would likely bloom to bruises, but everything else. What he had called her. How he had made her feel. How he had – how she had _let_ him – strip away everything she considered Hermione Granger and turn her into a mindless, mewling _nothing_ only aware of helpless want and his hate.

She didn't tell him that for a while it had been so _good_ to just let go of everything. It had been like a dam had burst, and Hermione had revelled in exorcising her anger, being hateful and furious, lashing out and trying to hurt him, hating his touch and craving it more… Merlin, what were they doing to each other? Her heart thudded like a hammer on her ribs as she stared at Draco with shame-hot cheeks. "Are you – are you all right?" he asked hesitantly, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable; young and lost, with no idea what to do. "No," Hermione whispered, "No, I'm _not_ all right." She buried her face in her hands and tried to breathe slowly, to calm her racing mind and heart. Hermione didn't care that he took her words to mean that she wasn't all right physically, that he had injured her – she was too consumed by her rising self-disgust.

Draco's hand touched her shoulder lightly, and Hermione jerked her head up and recoiled from him, her eyes wide and her hands up to push him away. Grief and guilt shaped Draco's features, and he pulled his hand back, flexing his fingers by his side, and Hermione couldn't pull her eyes from it. His long, elegant fingers and the smooth, soft skin of his palm made his hand look designed for delicate, precision work, not brute force – and yet it was deceptively strong. Obviously. Hermione touched her throat again, eyes sliding down to her feet, her bright socks dark in the small, dim room. It had hurt, the way Draco had choked her and hated her, and yet a part of Hermione had relished the feelings he had provoked.

"I – You didn't want me to," Draco said so softly Hermione had to strain to make out the words, and she snarled a _no_, even knowing it was a lie. She _had _wanted it. But she couldn't admit that aloud – she could barely admit to _herself_.

"You didn't want… Oh. Oh _fuck._ I thought you – I didn't know. I swear I didn't – fuck. _Fuck_, I'm sorry." Draco limped back from her, pressing against the shelves on the other side of the pantry, as if he was trying to get as far from Hermione as possible, features paling, and _horrified._ She looked at him, bewildered at the strength of his reaction. Did he really think Hermione would be happy with what had just taken place? That she would be happy with declarations of hatred and contempt, and the confusion of their horrible-yet-good violence? And then horror crossed Hermione's own features as she realised what she had made Draco think he'd done. "_No_ – no, that's not what I meant. You didn't – I –" She looked at her hands, her fingers picking at a loose thread on the hem of her shirt. "I said stop when I…wanted you to stop. You didn't, um, force me. " She said the last two words in a small, embarrassed voice, and Draco let out a shuddering breath, eyes falling shut.

Absurdly, she wanted to go to him and stroke his hair and soothe him, tell him it was all right and everything was going to be fine – and then it would all go back to the way it was; them happy together, and for a while at least things would be good, and pigs would fly. She laughed to herself shortly and Draco gave her a worried look. "Hermione –"

"No. No, I can't right now. I can't." She shut her eyes and tried to think calming thoughts. A rainy afternoon with a good book. Laughing with Harry. Her mother's smile. The scent of freshly mown grass. Ron's awkward yet all-encompassing hugs. Hermione felt like she had after her and Draco's first kiss, only so much worse. Confused and frightened by the situation and her own treacherous feelings, needing to escape to the solitary sanctuary of her bedroom. Her eyes snapped open. She needed her wand, so she could go. Get away. "Hermione!" Draco snapped at her, and she realised she was starting to hyperventilate as she looked frantically for her wand. Standing like a statue, her eyes scanning the shadowy floor, hands fluttering with useless energy at her sides. "Where's my wand?" There was a hitch in her voice, and tears started trickling down her cheeks. "My wand!"

Draco grabbed her arm, shaking her slightly, "Hermione. Calm down." She whipped her head around and stared up at him; he was calmer now, in control again, and she was only getting more and more upset. Her breath came in great sobbing gasps that racked her ribs with pain. She shook Draco's hand off. "My wand, Where's my _wand_? Where is it?" Hermione repeated over and over, her tears blurring her sight. She dropped to her knees, hands sliding flat over the pantry floor, searching for her wand by touch. Her mind swam and raced.

She had just wanted to talk. Just wanted to make Draco see that it could turn out okay. That the future might be so terrible not. That what they had was worth it. That it was the present that mattered anyway, and not the far off future. Hermione had just wanted to _talk_. To fix things. Make it all better. Make Draco see. But she had made it worse. It had all gone so, so wrong, and she didn't understand any of it. She didn't know anything anymore. She didn't understand what had just happened, and it had felt so wrong but so good, and she sickened herself, repelled herself.

This wasn't her. Hermione Granger didn't do these sorts of awful, confusing, twisted things. And she _certainly_ didn't enjoy them. What was _wrong_ with her?

"Hermione. Please, don't. Please." Draco's voice broke through Hermione's reverie, and she realised with humiliation that she had been mumbling her disjointed thoughts aloud. "I'm not like that," she wobbled out a denial, and Draco's arms enclosed her. She didn't have the energy to fight him. He pulled her back against him, and lifted her awkwardly onto his lap, his arms tight around her. "It's all right, Hermione. It's okay. Just…calm down. It's okay, Hermione." She wondered how Draco could say that it was all right when it very clearly _wasn't_. Her head sank against his chest, and his hand stroked over her hair as Hermione let go and gave in to small, hitching sobs. Draco kept telling her it was all right in quiet, awkward tones, and she wanted to believe him. She wanted _desperately_ to believe him. But she didn't.

Hermione pressed her lips together and shoved her sobs down, wiping at her tears and forcing her breathing to slow. "You were right," she said tightly as she struggled out of Draco's arms. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't stay there forever and indulge in false comfort. Time couldn't stand still; eventually she would have to face up to the situation, and what it had become. "What?" Draco asked, standing as she did, and they both stood staring at each other, the small distance between them feeling both endless and suffocatingly close. Draco's fringe hung in his eyes as always, and Hermione suppressed the urge to reach out and push it off his face. His eyes were clear, the colour of slate in the dim light, and his expression was more honest than it had been in days; written with open sadness that only made Hermione feel worse.

The air was still, and Hermione felt like she was balanced on the very edge of a precipice. "You were right," she repeated with the calm of numbness. "I'll leave you alone." Hermione could leave her wand – she didn't need it except to heal any marks Draco had left on her throat, and she had a turtleneck somewhere to hide them. She could come down and look for it later, once she had cried until her sinuses ached and her eyes were bloodshot. Draco looked at her like he wanted to stop her from leaving as she shuffled over to the pantry door, watching him from the corner of her eye. But with the memory of what they had just done – torn each other apart with unforgivable words – looks weren't going to be enough to change Hermione's mind. She couldn't stay if he didn't give her a good reason. She couldn't go through a repeat of what they'd done; all that hate, twisted into something else that disturbed her, made her feel _wrong_.

Hermione didn't expect Draco to ask her not to go; it had been him who had ended things, after all. But she couldn't help desperately hoping he would stop her, and say something that would somehow magically smooth away all the mess, confusion, and hurt. Hermione opened the door and light flooded the pantry, and when she looked back at him he opened his mouth as if to speak. She paused, stomach sick with nerves and heart racing. And Draco shut his mouth again, and watched her go without a word.

# # #

"What are you doing?" Lupin asked concernedly from the doorway into the dining room, canting his head to one side and staring as Draco kicked the doors to the small liquor cabinet shut with one foot – his arms filled with bottles of cheap firewhiskey. "Getting a drink," Draco answered shortly, shooting Lupin a glance that said clearly, _fuck off_. "_A_ drink, Draco?" Lupin asked in that infuriatingly gentle way he had, and Draco looked at him blankly, and answered, "Drinks, then, if you must be precise."

"Is there something wrong?"

Oh, I only half-strangled the woman I love and turned her into a quivering wreck, Draco thought bitterly.

"No. Not at all," he answered casually, pretending that it was totally normal for him to be caught trying to take three bottles of firewhiskey down to the cellar to drain to dregs alone. Actually, it wasn't that uncommon for him to take a few bottles down to his screened off room in the cellar just lately, but he hadn't been caught until now. Draco's desperation for a drink had made him careless; the middle of the morning wasn't the best time to try sneak booze out. And now he'd been caught, and even though he was of age, there was no way someone like Lupin was going to let this go without comment.

"I assume you got three bottles out by, ah, accident? I'm sure you only meant to get one, at the most," Lupin offered him a graceful way out of the situation, and Draco ignored it, shaking his head. "No."

"You're going to drink that much firewhiskey?" Lupin asked in disbelief and Draco shrugged, scrutinizing the bottles cradled in his arms. "Perhaps," he retorted shortly, arching an eyebrow at Lupin, as if to ask if the interrogation was over, and he could go now. Lupin kept eying Draco suspiciously, and Draco wondered what he looked like. Probably like total shit. "Not only would that much liquor give you alcohol poisoning, but it's eleven in the morning, Draco. I'm not sure it's healthy for you to –"

"How _interesting_. And obviously I won't drink it all at once; I'm not an idiot," Draco half-snarled, his frayed patience unravelling at Lupin's condescending, worried tone. "So why do you need to take it all with you? In fact, why not have a drink up here, if you're going to have one at all?" Lupin continued, shifting closer to Draco, fixing him with a stare that made Draco shift uncomfortably. Why the hell did Lupin have to stick his bloody _dog_ nose in where it wasn't wanted? "I don't have to fucking explain myself to you, Lupin. You're neither my parent, nor my friend," Draco bit out. He _couldn't_ explain himself, not unless he wanted to explain that he planned on retreating to his room and drinking steadily until the alcohol ran out. He didn't think that would reassure the ex-DADA professor.

"Are you sure there isn't something you'd like to talk about?" Lupin pressed, "Nothing that's bothering you? I know that we aren't close –"

"To put it mildly," Draco interrupted, and Lupin ignored him, continuing calmly, "But if you need someone to talk to – advice, or just a sympathetic ear… I would be happy to help."

Draco wrinkled his nose and gave Lupin a frosty glance, "That won't be needed. As I said, I'm perfectly fine; I just feel like a drink." They both knew that he was lying, but for whatever reason, Lupin didn't push the matter any further. Draco was grateful to him for that, at least. "You know where I am, if you change your mind," Lupin offered as Draco stepped down onto the cellar steps. Draco smirked coldly, "Trust me. I won't."

Some time later, two bottles of firewhiskey sat unopened on the rickety table in Draco's small, screened off corner of the cellar, the third bottle open and nearly half-empty. Draco was holding a half-full glass of the firewhiskey, elbows on the table as he tried to tune out the talk between Karkaroff and his escorts; at least they weren't talking in English. It made it easier to ignore them when he couldn't understand what they were saying. Draco took a sip from the glass, wheezing as the cheap liquor scorched raw down his throat.

The Scrabble board Hermione had given Draco sat on the table in front of him, and he stared at the bone-coloured tiles with unfocused eyes. The damned game bored the shit out of Draco, but Hermione loved it. They had sat talking over so many games. Arguing, divulging small secrets, playing footsy under the table; both of them sore losers, but invariably Hermione won – and lorded it over him. Draco wanted to play the stupid game again, but he doubted he ever would. He hadn't meant to argue with Hermione like that, and he sure as hell hadn't meant to borderline assault her, but she had pushed, and pushed, and then when she had called him a child-murderer Draco had lost his tenuous grip on what passed for his sanity these days. He had _hurt_ Hermione. Taken everything good that they had shared, and twisted it, tainted it with cruelty and hatred, and made them both enjoy it.

Draco had enjoyed similar experimental games of pain with Pansy – she had wanted it, though, asked for it, and the intent had been to create pleasure not inflict hurt. Hermione wasn't like Pansy. Even if Draco hadn't been cruel and awful to Hermione, Draco doubted she would have been comfortable with the idea that discomfort could make pleasure that much stronger.

Hermione had revelled in it, even as she had hated him, and Draco had seen that afterward she had hated herself for her body's reactions. Hated herself. Like she felt betrayed by her own body. Draco drank, hand automatically lifting the glass to his lips as he remembered her panicked revulsion, hoping the alcohol would drive the memory out of his brain, for a time, at least. He wished…he wished that hadn't happened. Draco hadn't intended…he hadn't wanted to hurt her to that extent.

Draco had just wanted Hermione to stop chasing after him, stop trying to fix them; he couldn't keep saying no to her. He was too weak. But there were too many reasons not to be with her. His head swam, and he blinked owlishly as his glass doubled waveringly for a moment. He scowled as laughter sounded from the other end of the cellar. "Shut up," he muttered under his breath, and sighed, slumping in his chair. It would be so easy to slip back into what he'd had with Hermione. So fucking tempting. But in the end, the world was right and they were wrong. Every reason that wizarding society and Hermione's family and friends had against them being together was right. Death Eater, criminal, futureless, not good enough, too much baggage…they were all right.

He drank more. Draco had achieved what he had wanted. He had hurt Hermione enough that she would no longer keep trying to convince him to give their short, ill-fated relationship a chance. She couldn't fix what Draco had irreparably broken. He sloshed more firewhiskey into his glass with an unsteady hand, liquor slopping over the glass and onto the table. There was no way he could be happy with what he'd accomplished; he loved her. But Draco thought that he should at least be feeling some sort of grim satisfaction that he'd finally ended things between them. Hermione would despise him now, and that would make it easier for them both to let go, and move on as best they could.

He gulped down more firewhiskey, choking on the stuff. It fuzzed reality at the edges, and made it all a little more bearable. Move on – now that was a fucking joke. Hermione, Draco hoped despite his selfishness, would do so, but him? He had nothing to move on _to_, nothing to ever look forward to. If they won the damn war, Draco could look forward to prison, most likely, and then the lovely experience of being penniless and ostracised by wizarding society. If they lost, he'd be dead, along with Hermione and everyone else. No, the post-war future was not a pleasant place. It was lucky then, that Draco probably wouldn't live that long. It was a macabre sort of luck, if he could even call it that, but it was all Draco could reasonably expect.

He set his glass down and fumbled the Scrabble tiles and board back into the box, eyes clouded and hand trembling. He stood and limped to his bed, and shoved the Scrabble box well beneath it, along with the rest of the games Hermione had brought him. Out of sight, out of mind. The books, Draco left on top of his dresser, reminding him of her with every glance; at least them he could read. It was only practical to read them, and not shove them out of sight. Or that was what he told himself. He hobbled back to the table and retrieved his glass of firewhiskey, staring into the depths of the amber liquid, and then swilling it back, and refilling the glass. It was time, Draco thought self-deprecatingly, to sit and drink himself into oblivion.

# # #

Hermione scrubbed at her tear-stained face with the ends of her sleeves and quickly dragged her fingers through her hair, examining her face in the mirror. No, that hadn't helped – it still looked like she'd been crying her eyes out, probably because she'd spent the afternoon doing just that. At least the turtleneck she had dug out of the back of her drawer hid the slight bruise marks Draco's fingers had left. She sighed and straightened her shoulders as another knock came at the door, trying to smile. She looked ghastly. "Come in," she called as impatient knocking sounded again. If whoever was at the door asked why she looked so dreadful, Hermione would just tell them she was feeling shaky and upset after what had happened on the mission last night. Nearly dying would rattle anyone, especially when combined with the injuries she'd sustained.

"Hermione?" Ginny popped her head around the door, auburn hair swinging loose and pin-straight around her shoulders. Hermione had always wished for beautiful, manageable hair like Ginny's. The girl slipped into the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. She didn't even wait for Hermione to say hello before she began, "Are you all right? You didn't turn up for dinner, and mum found your wand in the pantry, of all places. She sent me up to give it back, but," Ginny gave Hermione a worried, searching look, eyes narrowing as she took in Hermione's appearance. "But I would have come up anyway. According to Lupin, Malfoy disappeared into the cellar this morning with enough firewhiskey to fell a Hippogriff, and with mum finding your wand, and you not turning up for dinner, and Ne–"

"Ginny…" Hermione cut the younger witch off, weary warning in her voice as she turned away from the other to try to hide her puffy eyes and blotchy cheeks, combing her fingers through her hair. Draco drinking? God, that wasn't exactly surprising though, after what had happened this morning. Hermione almost wanted to lose herself in the bottom of a bottle, except she knew that it wouldn't fix anything, only delay the inevitable. Enough firewhiskey to fell a Hippogriff? _Hah._ Hermione thought with unexpected viciousness, that she hoped Draco's hangover made him feel like his skull was splitting open. Draco deserved to feel terrible, after what had happened. What he'd said, and what he'd done. Hermione's hand went unconsciously to her throat. He didn't deserve to try to _avoid_ feeling awful by getting blitzed.

"I was worried that maybe something had happened between the two of you?" Ginny ventured cautiously, coming up by Hermione's side and shoving her wand into Hermione's field of vision. "Thanks, Ginny," she mumbled as she took it. At least now she could heal the marks on her throat and take off this ridiculous woollen turtleneck that made her skin itch all over. "_Are_ you all right?" Ginny probed, and Hermione fiddled with her wand, shrugging and glancing at the redhead. "I'm just…tired. The mission took a lot out of me." Ginny raised a sceptical eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest. "Don't even _try_ to pretend with me, Hermione. I can see you've been crying, and I'm not as oblivious to all the evidence as the boys are." She began listing points, ticking each one off on her fingers.

"One, I know about you and Malfoy, and that things already weren't okay there. Two, he ran off to the cellar and drank himself into a coma. Three, you've been hiding away all day too. And four, your wand was found in the pantry – and _five_, at dinner, Neville was trying to discreetly ask if anyone had seen you, and if you were okay. And when I cornered him after dinner, he admitted he'd gone into the kitchen for a snack and heard you and Malfoy arguing." Ginny gave Hermione a rather triumphant look, obviously waiting for Hermione to spill everything, but Hermione was too fixated on what Ginny had just revealed.

The blood drained from Hermione's face, and then flooded back in a hot rush. Oh no. Oh _no_, someone had overheard them – _Neville_ had heard them. But how much had he heard? She was almost too frightened to ask. What if he'd been there long enough to hear them…her moans and whimpers, and her tears afterwards. No – he couldn't have heard her crying, Hermione was sure of _that_ at least; if Neville had heard her sobs he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from bursting in to make sure she was all right. But he still might have heard some of their… Hermione didn't know what to call it. She stepped back and sank onto her bed, face heated with humiliation and palms clammy with nervous sweat.

"What did he say?"

"Neville?"

"_Yes_, Neville. Honestly, who else would I be talking about?"

"He said," Ginny began and then obviously quoting what Neville had said, continued, "_I heard her arguing with Malfoy, and she sounded dreadfully upset. I was going to see if she was okay, but then_…" And then Ginny said as herself, "Then he trailed off and went red as a beet, and just stammered, _could you just check if she's okay? I don't want to – well, you're a girl. You're better at…_ And then he stammered to a stop and skittered away. Poor Neville, he's still so awkward." Ginny puffed out a breath and plopped down on the bed beside Hermione who kept staring at her wand, which she twirled absently in her hands. Neville had obviously heard enough to embarrass him, and Hermione felt more mortified than she ever had in her entire life. To know that one of her friends had heard her, like _that_. She wanted to sink into the floor, or cease to exist entirely. How was she ever supposed to face him again?

"So," Ginny interrupted Hermione's private mortification, "Are you going to talk to me about whatever's wrong, or tell me to go away like you did last time Malfoy was the topic of conversation?" Ginny asked briskly, and Hermione shot the younger girl a startled glare; how dare Ginny act like she had a right to know Hermione's private affairs. Hermione didn't have an obligation to confide in Ginny – it was none of the other girl's business, and she hated the entitled expectation in Ginny's voice. She told her so in no uncertain terms, and then crossed her arms and looked away from the younger witch. "Just leave me alone," she said in an angry echo of Draco's sentiments, and waited for Ginny to get up and leave in a huff.

Instead Ginny's fingers rested on Hermione's shoulder, curling around it gently as she said, "I'm your friend, Hermione, right? I know you think I'm being a nosy bitch, but there's something wrong, and I'm _worried_ about you. I want to help, if I can, but I can't unless you tell me what's going on." Hermione sighed, her annoyance dissipating as she heard the sincerity in the redhead's voice. "There's nothing you can help with, Ginny. I appreciate that you want to help, but there's nothing you can do," Hermione said, adding sotto voce, "There's nothing anyone can do, now."

"I'm sorry," Ginny said after a heavy pause, and Hermione nodded. There was nothing to say. "Do you want me to go?" Ginny asked after a moment, and Hermione shrugged, running her fingers idly over the carvings that twined around her wand, the familiar patterns soothing her. It was rather nice not to be alone, if she was to be honest with herself. "You can stay if you'd like. I'm not the best company though."

"That's okay."

They sat in silence for a while, Hermione turning things over and over in her head. Dwelling on every word Draco had said, every horrible feeling she had felt. She felt like misery, and the only reason she wasn't crying her eyes out was because Ginny was sitting right there.

"Kingsley had no luck with the Muggle Prime Minister again.," Ginny mentioned casually. "Apparently the stupid man feels more comfortable having You-Know-Who running around, than he does giving us those thingummyjigs, whatsits, um…chemical knock-out gas stuff?" The practical, impersonal topic came from out of nowhere, and Hermione was surprisingly grateful for something to focus on outside her own head, and her own problems. It was distraction, if nothing else. "Yeah, gas. That's the fourth time Kingsley's asked. I don't think the PM will change his mind."

"I don't see why we don't just _Imperio_ the silly bastard."

"Ginny! We couldn't!"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures. And it's our best hope of successfully getting to the cup. It's not like we haven't compromised on our…tactics…before."

"That's exactly why we can't!" For some reason Hermione felt extremely strongly about the whole matter, and she gesticulated emphatically as she continued, " We've let this war change us too much already. We're letting Voldemort taint us; twist who we are and what we're willing to do. We have to stay true to what we've always stood for – what's right. Doing things the right way. Not doing things for the greater good. Or we'll end up just like Voldemort!"

"We'd have to do a damn sight worse than _Imperio_ someone to be anywhere _near _as bad as You-Know-Who, Hermione," Ginny demurred and Hermione inexplicably felt tears prickle in her eyes, retorting, "We have to stay true to our beliefs! We have to…have to… We can't let him taint everything good. I won't let him turn us into some horrid, abhorrent perversion, even if it means that we lose this war!"

"Hermione…" Ginny sounded confused and concerned, and Hermione realised how incoherent and upset she must seem to Ginny. She took a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap, letting the breath out, and drawing another one. Ginny watched Hermione anxiously as she breathed slow and steady for a moment, and then Hermione blinked away her tears and said, "I just – I don't want to let Voldemort take away what makes us different to him. We're good. We're not…" She didn't even know what she was talking about anymore, but her head was filled with the memory of Draco's fingers around her throat and his hateful voice in her ear as she squirmed and whimpered for him.

_He_ had twisted what they'd had between them. Turned it into something that right now Hermione could only see as a sick perversion, and Hermione had let him – she had _liked _it. If Hermione had just stayed true to herself; listened to the part of her that said what they were doing felt wrong and like it could only end in hurt, and pushed Draco away instead of kissing him back, then it wouldn't have gone so horribly, terribly wrong. Maybe she would be sitting here talking with Draco instead of Ginny. But she had let Draco make her into someone she wasn't, someone who honestly, had frightened her. The memory of how she had acted with Draco earlier repelled Hermione, and she couldn't help hating him for doing that to her.

"I just want to be who I was at the beginning of the war, when it finally ends. I don't want to be someone else. I _want_ to be Hermione Granger, boring, know-it-all, bookworm, with plans for a career in the Ministry of Magic. I don't want everything that's happened, everything that's going to happen…I don't want it to change me."

"Hermione, honestly… You'll always be _you_, no matter how you change."

"I don't _want_ to change. I don't want to… I just want things to be the way they were."

"The way they were _when?_ Things have never been perfect. I bet that there was never a time when you were perfectly happy, and content with how things were. There'll always be things you regret, that you hate, that you wish you could take back, or erase, or forget. There will always be things going on imposed on you by others, or the world in general, that you don't like, but…change is inevitable," Ginny said with surprising wisdom.

"When did you get so smart?"

"It's hardly _smart_, Hermione. It's _obvious_. _Obviously _nothing stays the same, and everything is always changing. That's part of growing up, and getting old."

"It scares me."

"What happened, Hermione?" Ginny asked very gently, and Hermione knew exactly what Ginny meant. She relented, surrendered almost gratefully, and _everything_ came tumbling out. Ginny listened, quiet and sympathetic, and it was good to get it all out; like draining a wound. Hermione told her how her relationship with Draco had developed, told her the important things that had happened between her and Draco, good and bad. Ginny asked the occasional question, and gave the appropriate reactions at the appropriate times. She listened but she didn't judge Hermione's choices, and Hermione appreciated that more than anything else in the world. She hadn't been expecting that from Ginny.

Not that Ginny was supportive of Hermione and Draco being together; she was in fact very clear that she thought Hermione was mad for even giving Draco a second glance. But for Ginny to pretend that she understood Hermione's interest in Draco would have been a lie, and Hermione would have known that. Ginny's blatant honesty was preferable. But mostly the younger witch just listened. The only time she really got angry was when Hermione told her what had happened that morning in the kitchen, and Ginny had insisted on seeing the marks Draco had left on Hermione's throat. She had healed them with her hands shaking with anger and lips whitened from pressing tightly together, obviously trying to hold her tongue and not go on a rampage. And then she had taken a deep breath, sat back, and listened to Hermione ramble on again, until there was simply nothing else to say.

"What should I do, Ginny?"

"Do you want me to be honest? Do you want to hear what I really think, if it's my blunt opinion? Because I don't think I can be _nice_ when it comes to Malfoy."

"I want your opinion. Even if it's not _nice_." Hermione smiled weakly and Ginny returned the expression, but her eyes were tight and serious. "I think Malfoy is an arrogant, nasty, horrible arsehole. A complete prat. He's probably – definitely – done things that I could never forgive., and I don't think he comes anywhere _near_ to deserving you," Ginny said vehemently, and Hermione couldn't help wincing at the contempt in Ginny's tone. She hadn't told Ginny what Draco had done as a Death Eater; Hermione had promised not to tell, and she kept her promises. But she had said enough that Ginny had formed an idea of the degree of harm Draco had been involved in causing.

And Ginny had never been the sort of person who forgave easily – she was the type who nursed grudges – so Hermione wasn't surprised at the strength of the redhead's dislike for Draco. Ginny had no reason to forgive him, no reason to give him a chance. Ginny sighed and went on, calmer now, a little annoyance in her voice, "But, on the other hand, Malfoy has risked his life, saved Ron's and your lives, and generally been pretty bloody helpful since he defected. So I _do_ believe he's had a change of heart." Ginny paused and then said with great reluctance, "So I suppose he's not a total evil bastard. Not that I'd ever tell _him_ that. But…the two of you…together…" Ginny made a face and shuddered. "I don't get it. And I don't like it at all. It's…_wrong_. You and Malfoy? Ugh. It's just not right."

Hermione frowned at her friend. Ginny was getting it all wrong. Hadn't she been listening to Hermione before? Hermione had told her all the good things as well as the bad. All right, so Hermione had been angry and upset at Draco while talking about their relationship, and she probably had focused on the negative rather than the positive – but Hermione had thought she'd still made it very clear that when it had been good, it had been wonderful. She had told Ginny how unexpectedly supportive and kind and sweet Draco could be; how they understood each other so well. She'd admitted how much she loved Draco, and how he loved her too despite how he was acting, and if it wasn't for the damn war and Draco being made to stand trial afterwards, they would probably still be happy together. They weren't intrinsically _wrong_. They…

"But we _worked_. It was…it was… I know it seems strange to you Ginny, Malfoy and I. But…he does deserve me. He's not how he makes himself out to be. He's more than that. If we could just sort out all this stupid, horrible mess, that is." Hermione sank her head into her hands, voice muffled as she said, "I'm hurt and angry and I don't know what I want, but…" She looked up at Ginny miserably, "But I still love him, Gin."

"Well there's your answer, isn't it?" Ginny said, and grinned rather smugly. Hermione blinked, bewildered by Ginny's sudden change in tack. "What? I don't get…"

"You love him, you were happy with him – before things went wrong – and you want to be with him again. Merlin knows why, but that's not my point… My point is, Hermione – you still love him, and you want to make things work. So do it."

Hermione boggled at Ginny. She had put Hermione in a position where she could either agree with the redhead and denigrate Draco, or disagree and defend him. And she had automatically, without even thinking, focused on everything good that she loved about Draco, and for a moment, had forgotten about the flaws, and her current anger towards him. The devious, deceitful girl… Hermione snorted, "Draco would say _that_ reverse psychology gambit was very Slytherin of you."

"Psy-chol-ogy? And I would tell him to piss right off. _I'm _not the one who likes him here. He can go hang as far as _I'm_ concerned. It's you who's madly in love with the ferret."

Hermione pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, gnawed on her lip thoughtfully, a grin spreading stupidly over her face. "Psychology is the Muggle study of the human mind and brain. Reverse psychology is… basically, pushing someone to do what you _don't _want them to do, with the expectation that either the push itself, or the way you do it, will make them do the _opposite_. What you _really_ want them to do."

"Muggles are strange."

"Yes, they are," Hermione agreed, resting her chin on her knees and staring at her bedroom door without seeing it, mind elsewhere. "So what do I do? How am I supposed to try to fix the mess Draco and I have created? I don't – I don't know how to even begin. I'm still hurt and angry, and he's so damn stubborn… I don't know how to fix it," Hermione admitted quietly.

"So you really want to, then?"

"I do, if I can. I want to _try_, at least." She wasn't sure things could be fixed, even if they both wanted them to be. Even if she and Draco wanted to be together, too much might have happened to destroy their chances. There was a lot of baggage to work through and so many obstacles they would have to face, eventually if not immediately. But Hermione knew that she wanted to _try_, and being so certain about something felt good. She had no doubts, no reservations – no matter how this turned out, she would at least have the satisfaction of knowing she was wholly committed to it, and had given it her best shot. And that was a good feeling.

"I don't really know, Hermione. I mean, I've never had a relationship that was _difficult_ like you and Malfoy's. Okay, so Harry and I had a few issues, but nothing like…like this. I don't really have any useful advice, I'm sorry. I just don't want to tell you to do something that ends up making everything worse."

"Nothing? You can't give me _any_ advice?"

Ginny was silent for a moment, contemplating whether or not to say anything, and Hermione waited hopefully. Ginny sighed and looked Hermione in the eyes. "My only advice right now would be to give yourself – and him – a little bit of time. Don't go chasing after him _again_ now, while your wounds are still raw. Maybe, just try to be…distantly friendly? Make sure he knows you don't hate him, but don't try to fix things while your still hurting. That just leads to more arguments and hurt – trust me, I know."

"Give him time. Of _course_. The one thing I don't want to do, is the one piece of advice you give me. No, I know you're right. I just…"

"Really don't want to?" Ginny finished with a knowing, sympathetic smile.

"Yeah," Hermione agreed, and sighed. "So when…?"

"You'll know when the time is right."

"Oh my _god_. Did you really just say that? I could _throttle_ you!" Hermione cried as Ginny spouted the infuriatingly useless cliché, and grabbed her pillow up off the bed, thumping Ginny over the head with it. Ginny held up her hands and fended off the attack, little snorting giggles bubbling past her lips. "What? It's true! I'm sorry but it's true!"

"That – is – so – unhelpful!" Hermione punctuated her words with the pillow, and Ginny fell back on the bed, laughing so hard she was helpless to defend herself, her hands covering her face. "Honestly though, it's _not_ something you can explain! You'll just _know,_" the younger girl insisted through her laughter, and Hermione threw the pillow at her, losing her only weapon. "It's just the truth, Hermione. You'll know when the time is right," Ginny repeated, just rubbing it in now, smirking as she sat on the pillow, her eyes sparking with teasing mischief. Hermione huffed and glared at the other girl, "I hate you so much, right now."

"You're welcome," Ginny replied pointedly, and Hermione rolled her eyes and surrendered. "Thank you," she said with genuine appreciation, "I'm glad you came and pestered me into talking to you. I feel almost normal again, instead of misery personified." And she did. She felt so much lighter – happier. It had been a relief to just tell someone everything, and to get a totally honest, uncensored opinion. So Ginny hadn't been entirely approving of the idea of Hermione and Draco being in a relationship; but when it came right down to it, she was supportive of Hermione despite that. Even if Ginny openly disliked Draco, she didn't judge Hermione for liking him, and wanting to fix things between them.

"_Pestered?_ Well…I guess I did sort of pester you…"

"Ginny, you're nosy, meddling, and infuriating…but you're a good friend. An amazing, incredible friend," Hermione said with a smile. "And you reacted _far_ better than Harry did, when _he_ found out."

Ginny sat forward abruptly when she heard Hermione mention Harry, keen interest printed all over her face. "Harry? Oh Merlin, I can imagine. So how _did_ he react?"

Hermione suppressed a pang of loss and sadness at the memory of what she and Draco had been doing that day, wondering if she and Draco would ever be together like that again. But Hermione told herself that it would work out – made herself believe it – summoning up some of the optimism Draco had always gently mocked her for, and made herself grin at Ginny as she began, "Well, he walked in on the two of us while we were half-naked…"

# # #

_Author's Note: _Review please! ::begging face::

So this chapter was meant to be an argument and then reconciliation in the pantry. But it did _not_ turn out that way at all. I tried to bring the happiness in, but it just didn't flow, didn't fit, and in the end I gave up and went with what seemed to want to be written. I felt a bit bad about that to be honest, because I seem to just be torturing you all with constant angst at the moment :( I really like where the chapter went though, myself. I feel like it makes more sense than what would have been a rather forced reconciliation – obviously YMMV, though. But this chapter has brought them a major step closer to reaching that reconciliation, which is good :) Hermione especially, now that she has talked through her feelings with someone. Ginny I felt was the best choice for that, precisely because she _doesn't_ like Draco, she just wants what's best for Hermione. She's also very honest, blunt, and nosy enough to pester Hermione into opening up, which Hermione really needed to do even if she didn't want to at first. Plus, in defending Draco to Ginny it makes clear to Hermione what really, truly matters to her, underneath all the bullshit.

Um, in the pantry scene I wanted Hermione and Draco's actions to be believable and in character, and hopefully that's what I achieved. I felt like it was reasonable for them both to be filled with enough pent-up rage to really, seriously, lash out at each other. They've both been pushed to the point where they just can't take it anymore – Draco's taking his anger out on Hermione and simultaneously using the expression of his anger to drive her away. He's angry and he does in fact want to be mean to her, but he's also purposely trying to be as cruel as possible in the heat of the moment, because he figures that's the best way to end their state of relationship limbo, and make her not want anything to do with him. After the moment has passed, however, Draco feels rather fucking terrible for being such an arsehole – although he still acknowledges that it achieved what he 'wanted' it to.

Hermione's also feeling very conflicted. She loves Draco, she wants him to stop being stubborn and stupid so that they can sort things out, but he's being an arsehole. He's hurting her, and confusing her, and making her feel like shit, and as much as she can tell herself he's just doing it to push her away, it still hurts. So she's experiencing some emotional turmoil too, although rather less cognitive dissonance than Draco.

I personally think the pantry scene turned out quite hot, if nothing else, though. Angry, angsty, rough snogging, and Draco choking Hermione? Yum. Again, YMMV, haha.

(But don't try that one at home unless you have a safe word/signal and such, kids. Interesting fact – if just the wrong part of the throat is compressed accidentally, which is relatively easy to do, it can take no more than about 10-20 seconds for the person being choked to pass out, before they really realise it's happening. And an unconscious partner would tend to ruin the mood, rather. Make sure your [mild] kink is safe, lol.)

And yes, you may have noticed that Draco is indeed developing an unhealthy dependency on alcohol, as a way to cope with his unpleasant reality. I imagine most of the actively fighting members of the Order in this story probably technically drink a bit too much (people generally form unhealthy coping methods during times of stress that can't be alleviated), but not to the dependent extent that Draco is beginning to.

And that's it this chapter, folks. Next chapter will open with "two weeks later", and focus on a mission involving the Muggle town of Ballater, werewolves, an old friend of Draco's, unpleasant secrets, duelling, death, and confessions, and end on (my concept of) a happy note, for once.

Again, _review_ my lovelies, and I shall be ever so grateful to you :)


	32. Lycanthropy, Part 1: I Never Could

_Author's Notes: _Squee! So many reviews! Have I told you guys lately how awesome you all are? 'Cause you are, just so you know :D You can blame Dragon Age 2 and Jim C. Hines (Go read his books! Especially the Princess series. Fairytale princesses, written as realistically kickass heroes? Truly awesome!) for the lateness of this update. I have been lost in worlds other than this. Sorry!

This chapter just grew and grew as I wrote, and still has _so_ much more to write, that I'm turning it into another sequence of 2 – 3 chapters – the Lycanthropy sequence :) The title is from _Escape_ by Muse, and as per usual, I have tried to pick a song where both the lyrics and music fit the theme of the chapter (or sometimes vice versa), which has succeeded quite well this time. My proofread was more of a proof-skim, so mistakes may be a little more prolific than usual – apologies.

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Lycanthropy, Part 1: I Never Could**_

_**T-Minus 14 [days]**_

Draco opened his eyes and groaned pathetically. The waft of damp dirt filled his nostrils, and his cheek was squashed onto something hard and gritty, a trail of drool half-dried down his chin. He blinked and realised he was lying on the cellar floor, his drool a small damp puddle on the packed dirt. He groaned again and struggled to push himself up onto his elbows, his head pounding murderously, and his mouth feeling like someone had stuffed it with a rank, unwashed sock after he'd fallen asleep. Or more accurately, passed out rather ungracefully on the floor beside his bed, it seemed – his memories of the night before were somewhat hazy, to say the least.

Draco rolled onto his back and stared up at the cellar ceiling, trying to wet his cracked lips with a dry, muzzy tongue. He felt like hell, and the feeling only got worse as he remembered everything that had happened yesterday all over again. The argument in the pantry, the way he had been so fucking cruel, so roughly, bitingly horrible to Hermione, and made her love it despite herself. Draco remembered how her body had shaken like a stunned bird's as she had cried for those few moments in his arms afterwards. And now it was over and done with, and Draco suspected he would never have to worry about Hermione bothering him again.

The prospect left him feeling hollow and desolate, and he struggled to sit up, blinking blearily around him. Between his pounding head, painfully parched mouth, and the aching stiffness from sleeping on the hard dirt, Draco felt like utter shit. He sat up, thinking about how expressive Hermione was, how she practically _radiated_ her feelings, and he imagined her hatred for him would be palpable when he saw her next. He decided he would stay down here for as long as possible, and try to avoid her wrath. Draco slowly got to his feet, neck and back crackling as he stretched slowly and gently so as not to aggravate his disgustingly awful hangover. His head still pounded though, and he brushed off his clothes, lip curled at the dirt that clung to them, and then sat down at the table with a sigh. He dragged a bottle over to him and wedged it between his thighs to unscrew the cap with unsteady fingers, and then tossed it on the table with a tinny clatter.

"Hair of the dog. Bloody cheers," Draco toasted in a thickened slur, and brought the bottle of firewhiskey to his lips, gulping down a great, burning mouthful and coughing in splutters as it scorched its way into his stomach. If anything could ease what ailed him, it was this.

# # #

_**T-Minus 11 [days]**_

"Hi 'Mione." Ron's greeting snapped Hermione out of the book she was lost in, and she looked up to seeing him standing in the doorway of her bedroom, giving her an awkward little wave and grinning nervously. She clapped her book shut and smiled at him. "Ron." He shifted from foot to foot, and ducked his head, looking like awkwardness personified. "What's up?" Hermione sat up cross-legged on her bed and patted the edge of it invitingly. Ron's shoulders slumped with relief and he hurried into her room, shutting the door behind him and sitting where she'd patted. She waited for him to tell her what was wrong; she knew _something_ must be wrong – Ron never looked this hangdog unless he'd done something stupid and needed her help.

The silence stretched out, with Ron beginning to speak and then shutting his mouth again, shooting Hermione nervous sideways glances every few seconds. She was starting to worry his problem was with _her_ and not one of his own making, when he finally burst out with, "I want Cho to marry me!" Hermione blinked, her first reaction to say stupidly, "Shouldn't you be asking her then, not me?" Ron gave her a _look_. "I need your advice, Hermione. I want to…propose – bloody hell that sounds weird – but I don't know if maybe it's too soon and I'll just freak her out. And I don't know how to do it, either. Help?" He shot her a pathetic puppy-dog face, and Hermione grinned, despite her slight annoyance at Ron's total helplessness.

She always ended up solving his problems for him, and it had gotten old very quickly, now she wasn't interested in him _like that_ anymore. But then he looked so adorably boyish and pleading, and she melted inside despite herself. Still, she straightened and put on a serious face. "Ronald, exactly how long have you been going out with Cho?" He shrugged, "I dunno. It kind of…came on gradually. Maybe nearly two months, now?"

"Well then, it's definitely _far_ too soon to be proposing marriage, Ron, and you know it."

"But 'Mione –"

"It's too fast, and your mother will murder you, whether she likes Cho or not, if you plan to get married any time soon. I think a long engagement might be in your best interests. And I know perfectly well that you're only rushing because of the war, and that's just silly and pointless and –"

"'Mione!" Ron interrupted Hermione's ramblings, and his expression was one of long-suffering affection tinged with impatience. "'Mione, Cho and I have known each other for years, and we've been going on missions and living together since we first came to Godric's Hollow. We know we want to be together. And I love her, and she loves me. What's the point in waiting?" He smiled sweetly, and Hermione's chin trembled, her lips quivered and her eyes filled with tears. He looked so happy. So completed and so certain – not a trace of doubt or sadness on his face. She was so envious, even as she was desperately happy for Ron. If anyone deserved that kind of perfect, uncomplicated happiness, it was Ron.

"I – I'm so happy for you," Hermione sobbed, and threw herself suddenly at Ron, squeezing him in a hard, fierce hug and then just as abruptly letting him go and dropping back to the bed. "Ignore what I said before," she said with a tearful quaver in her voice, wiping her tears away as they spilled over, "You two are perfect for each other, and you're right – there's no point in waiting. No – no point at all." She found herself in the incredibly odd position of wishing Draco was more like Ron; reckless and impulsive, throwing caution to the wind and damn the consequences. She glanced up at Ron, embarrassed by her emotional reaction to his news. He was looking at her bemusedly, head canted to one side.

"Are you okay, 'Mione?"

She said the only thing she could, without informing Ron about her situation with Draco. "I'm sorry. I'm – I'm fine. I just…I wish I had what you have," she said, with a snotty sniffle, and Ron's expression gentled, blue eyes filled with sympathy. "C'mere, 'Mione." He opened his arms to her, and she crawled across the bed and snuggled up against her friend, leaning her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her back and leant his chin on the top of her head. "You'll find it one day, 'Mione; I know you will. How could you not? You're kind, and strong, and bloody brilliant, and not half bad looking."

"Oh, thanks, Ron. Not half bad looking," Hermione repeated with a snort, and Ron laughed. "You know what I mean. You're gorgeous, and one day you'll find someone who will properly appreciate that, and everything else wonderful about you." Hermione smiled, mollified. "Properly appreciate?" she asked, enjoying the feel of Ron's warm, knobbly shoulder under her cheek, and the feel of his arm securely around her shoulders. A hug from Ron was like home and safety and family all wrapped up in one; almost brotherly, except not really, because that would make their old fumbling, awkward crushes rather disturbing in hindsight.

It had been too long since Hermione had gotten a Ron-hug; he had been utterly absorbed by Cho since their relationship came out into the open – which Hermione understood; she wasn't resentful – and she had been equally distracted by her issues with Draco. Between their respective love lives and the war, there really hadn't been any time for the two of them and Harry to spend time together, just the three of them. She missed being The Golden Trio. Missed the times that it had been just them; her and her two boys. As annoying as they got, as much as they expected her to be the mother and take care of them, and drove her up the bloody tent wall, she still missed those long months searching for Horcruxes. Not the stress and the arguments and strain, but the rest of it. Being together, the three of them.

"Yeah," Ron said, pulling Hermione out of her nostalgia. "Properly appreciate. You can't just go out with any old git, you know. It has to be someone Harry and I approve of. Preferably a Quidditch player, like –" Hermione snorted with amusement, "You and Harry aren't my parents, Ron. You can't tell me whom I can and can't go out with. And I am _not_ going out with a Quidditch player just to suit you!" Ron laughed, "Ah well, it was worth a try, right? Imagine if I could tell everyone someone like Aidan Stark was shagging my best mate – and Harry and I'd get free tickets to Quidditch matches, and signed memorabilia and…'Mione, are you _sure_ you wouldn't go for a – ouch, don't bloody hit me!" Hermione settled her head back against Ron's shoulder, as he winced and rolled it beneath her cheek. "Bloody hell, you've got a good arm on you these days."

"I'm sorry," she said apologetically, twisting her face up to glance at him. Ron grinned, and patted her back. "It'd still take more than _that_ to bruise _me_," he reassured her teasingly, and then said more seriously, "Harry and I…we just don't want to see you wasting your time on some ungrateful prat who doesn't realise what an amazing girlfriend he's got. Y'know?" Hermione nodded. She imagined Ron would think her relationship with Draco fit into the wasting time category, if he knew about it. Of course, he'd probably think a lot worse about it than _that_, too. As much as he had softened in his attitude toward Draco, he still didn't really trust him, and he certainly didn't like him. She imagined that if Ron knew, he'd hit the roof and hex Draco with something horribly painful.

"You deserve to be with someone who appreciates you."

"I do, don't I?" Hermione said, thinking of Draco and how he _did_ appreciate her. He did, really. He was just…being an idiot right now. "Thanks, Ron." It was nice to have friends who could give her a boost when she was feeling like shite. She'd almost forgotten what it felt like, to be like this – relaxed and perfectly comfortable with one of the people she loved. She promised herself she would try to spend more time with her friends from now on, and less moping miserably over Draco. It had been four days since the Pantry Incident – as she had called it so she didn't have to think of _what _had happened exactly, just her innocuous term for it – and it was probably time she at least _tried _to enjoy life again.

"And really, 'Mione, you hardly have much of a chance to find someone right _now_, unless you're interested in Dean, Seamus or little Colin bloody Creevy. Everyone else is either taken or gay – well, except for Neville, but then he's absolutely mad about Luna…" Hermione smiled and made a face at the thought of going out with Dean or Seamus, but inwardly she couldn't stop thinking about Draco. She wished she could confide in Ron, but what was the point? He'd only get mad, and unless she managed to fix things with Draco, it would just create trouble over nothing.

Hermione sat up straight, breathed deeply, and gave Ron a pasted-on bright smile, changing the topic before it jabbed at her any more. "Anyway, Ron, aren't I supposed to be giving you advice on how to propose?"

# # #

_**T-Minus 9 [days]**_

Hermione avoided meeting Draco's gaze, just as he studiously avoided hers. But that didn't stop her from sneaking quick, thrifty glances at him from the corner of her eye whenever she had the chance. Kingsley was talking about the Muggle Prime Minister's latest, and apparently _final_ refusal to allow the Order to use Muggle military weaponry. It was an important topic; a blow to the Order's plans to raid Gringotts, and Hermione should be just as worried as everyone else, but Kingsley's grim words slid over her meaninglessly. Hermione just couldn't seem to pay attention – she couldn't make her brain comprehend the gravity of the situation, too stupidly wrapped up in her own miserable issues.

This meeting was the first time she had done more than catch a glimpse of Draco as he slipped away from doorways and ducked out of rooms. It was back to the old 'avoid Hermione' game, and so far he was doing quite well – although it probably helped that she wasn't trying to pin him down, this time. She had taken Ginny's advice. She smiled at Draco weakly when she saw him, not wanting to appear as though she hated him, but she hadn't tried to trap him. The last time Hermione had done that, it hadn't turned out well for either of them, and she wasn't eager for a repeat of the Pantry Incident.

It hadn't exactly been difficult for him to avoid her, though; Lupin had taken Draco off missions because he had apparently been in a state of near-constant inebriation since the Pantry Incident, and spent most of his time in the cellar. The only times he emerged upstairs were, Hermione assumed, to forage for food or replenish his alcohol supplies, and he seemed to have been doing that at odd hours to avoid her as much as possible. She certainly hadn't seen much of him, but she assumed he had to be getting his food and booze somehow. Mrs Weasley was pushing for Draco to have his access to alcohol cut off altogether, but no one was really listening to her. Hermione wondered why the adult Order members, if no one else, weren't more curious about Draco's sudden descent into drunkenness, but she supposed they just assumed it was the stress of the war weighing heavy on him. And, she thought, perhaps unfairly, they probably didn't care if Draco drank himself to death.

The meeting was splitting into halves, the Order members dividing over the possibility of stealing what they needed for the Gringotts raid from the Muggle military. Hermione listened with half an ear, feeling too apathetic to get involved, and wearied by the pointless, unhelpful disagreement. Kingsley thought that he might still be able to persuade the Muggle PM to give them access to the Muggle supplies they needed – tear gas grenades and stronger stuff that caused unconsciousness, and gas masks. Ron was pushing hard for them to just waltz onto a military base and steal the stuff, his arguments being backed up by several hard-faced Aurors, a reluctant, frail looking Professor McGonagall, and Cho, unsurprisingly.

Hermione found the splintered disagreement painful to listen to, couldn't outright agree with either side, and she wasn't inclined to play mediator along with a haggard Lupin, and so her eyes drifted back to Draco. Her fingers traced lazy, absent patterns on the scarred wooden tabletop as she eyed him carefully, her muscles wound tight as springs despite her efforts to look casual. He was too pale and his skin looked unhealthily translucent, his usually sharp grey eyes dulled and cast in bruises, the line of his cheekbone and jaw too harsh, skin looking stretched paper thin over his bones. Hermione could tell he had lost weight – and a rather large amount in such a short period of time. Perhaps he _hadn't_ been coming upstairs for food, but just yet more alcohol.

Draco didn't look like he'd been paying much attention to personal grooming either, Hermione thought with a grimace. His hair seemed greasy and was shoved roughly back off his face, and pale stubble roughened his cheeks and jaw, making him look alien to her. Hermione preferred Draco smooth shaven, not scruffy and bristling with patchy boyish growth. He was slouching back in his chair, hand resting on the table, raggedy nails picking at a crack in the wood, wetting his lips repeatedly as though they were parched; as disinterested in the lively debate of the meeting as Hermione was.

She bit her lip, worried by just how awful he looked, and wishing there was something she could do to help him; but when he avoided her the way he had, her options were rather limited. Hermione supposed she _could_ scramble onto the table, throw herself across it and tumble Draco and herself to the floor, put her mouth firmly on his and kiss the living daylights out of him. Her nose wrinkled as she imagined the stink of stale alcohol on his breath – not that _that _would stop her, if kissing him had any chance of snapping him out of his stupor. But she rather suspected it would just embarrass them both enormously, and piss Draco off even more.

She scowled at him and as if he sensed her worried annoyance, Draco looked up and their eyes met. A frisson seemed to burn through the air between them and Draco's face filled with guilt and the need for a drink. Hermione could see the need scratching in the hollowed sockets of his eyes, and in the way his hand curled around a bottle that wasn't there. She smiled at him, a feeble attempt that tried to wordlessly convey her muddled worry and her want for him – tempered somewhat by wariness. Hermione couldn't help that everything that had happened between them had made her…guarded against the possibility of more hurt. But Draco didn't return the expression as she'd hoped, just jerked his eyes away from hers, and her smile faltered and melted away.

"Excuse me," he said tautly and pushed his chair back, stood with the quick grace of a Seeker. His fingers twitched at his side, and his head was bowed, shoulders hunched up around his ears as he retreated from Hermione's steady, wounded gaze. The meeting had devolved into outright arguing – a heated, petty battle of words – and apart from Hermione, no one but Ginny noticed Draco's abrupt exit. An ache tightened in Hermione's chest as Draco disappeared into the cellar, shooting her a hunted look over his shoulder before he vanished into the darkness.

Hermione slumped back in her chair with the miserable feeling of a moment unrealised – another chance gone – tangling in her gut. She twisted her head away from the open trapdoor, eyes wet and hands clenching in her lap, as the others fought like petulant children around her. Her tear-blurred eyes went to Ginny, a still spot in a sea of chaos, and the younger witch's lips tightened in a sympathetic expression, and then mouthed the word, _sorry._ Hermione smiled in recognition, a pale, watery thing, then flinched as Kingsley silenced the room by striking his palm flat on the table, a dulled crack filling the room.

Thoughts of Draco were shocked from Hermione's head as her eyes flew to the head of the table, where Kingsley loomed, and after a moment's startled silence discussions resumed around the table; Hermione listening dully.

# # #

_**T-Minus 7 [days]**_

Draco squinted up at Nymphadora, brow furrowed as her barrage of too-loud, too-fast scolding bored its way into his skull. Nymphadora had started vaguely calm and reasonable, but right now she had degenerated into generally berating him, and calling him names that were meant to sting, but he really didn't give a fuck. He just wished she wasn't so bloody _loud_. "You _coward!_ I told you! I told you, if you did this to Hermione, I'd stick your head on a pike! For Merlin's sake, Draco, don't just sit there. Give me a good reason to _not_ hex you halfway across the world. Explain it to me. Make me understand. Because right now you look like a bloody fool who bollixed up and either doesn't care, or is too cowardly to try to fix his mess."

"For Merlin's sake, Nymphadora," Draco groaned, his head spinning, feeling distinctly like he was about to be sick. He was drunk as hell, and not fucking up for handling Nymphadora's furious, self-righteous rant.

"Don't call me that," she snapped huffily as Draco stared up at her through glazed eyes; her hair a brilliant angry red that matched her flaming cheeks, her hands knuckled at her hips as she glared at him with belly outthrust as if someone had shoved a giant melon under her shirt. She had been chastising him without fucking pause since she had first strode into his little screened-off room in the cellar, and muttered a privacy spell so Karkaroff and his ruddy escort couldn't listen in and have a laugh.

"I did what I thought was best. For Hermione, and –"

"Oh don't give me that! It's a loud of bollocks and you know that as well as I do, Draco." She gave him a piercing, narrow-eyed stare and Draco flinched away from it, burying his nose in his glass and taking another gulp of cheap Muggle plonk. "You regret breaking up with her. You wish you could take it back – I can see it. But you're not doing anything about it except for drinking yourself into the ground. You know, if you apologised, she'd give you another chance. She loves you, Merlin knows _why_." Draco scanned Nymphadora's face and it was obviously she truly believed Hermione would take him back. Draco had his doubts. It seemed unbelievable that Hermione would want anything to do with him after how he'd acted.

But he fantasised, drunk in bed thinking about saving her life on a mission, her in his arms and looking up at him with those big brown eyes full of gratitude. Of course, his traitorous brain usually veered back into reality; Hermione was not really one to swoon in someone's arms – at the very least she would make some pithy comment, and he would reply in kind. There would be no melting into her saviour's strong embrace for Hermione Granger. Of course, in Draco's drunken imagination, pithy comments led to declarations of love, and forgiveness, which led on to kisses, and before long his hand would slip below the bedcovers and he'd _think_ about her like _that._ He always felt vaguely dirty afterwards, and not just because he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a shower.

Merlin, Nymphadora was right. Draco _did_ wish he could take everything back, or make it all right. The knowledge that he'd made a terrible mistake had been growing in him for days now, gnawing on his insides, and even copious amounts of alcohol did little to dull it. Nymphadora's indignant, scolding lecture had only solidified Draco's regret into something he couldn't ignore any longer. He had been a stupid fucking coward, trying to steep himself in denial, and run from the possibility – the near certainty – of being hurt. But he hadn't saved himself or Hermione from any pain; he'd just brought it on them sooner. Draco couldn't run away from how he felt, just like he couldn't run from the trial looming in his future, if they won.

Draco had fucked up.

He shrugged, fingers tapping at his glass, eyes on the table instead of Nymphadora's accusing face. "I made my bed. Now I have to lie in it, don't I?" Draco was prickly with the defensiveness that came with knowing he was wrong, and he scooped up his grubby glass and swilled down some more of the raw Muggle shit. He coughed and spluttered as it ripped sickening down his throat, balling up his hand and pressing it against his stomach as it protested. Cheap port wine was the devil's own invention.

"Why? Why do you have to _lie in it_?" Nymphadora questioned scathingly, and Draco shrugged again, head swimming, glad he was sitting down as Nymphadora doubled and blurred and the world tilted alarmingly. "I made my choice. I – I don't know if she told you what I did," Draco paused, the lingering taste of alcohol in his mouth sour and stale, "But I hurt her. I took what we had and I made it into something to hurt her with, to drive her away. Shove the knife in a little deeper and _twist_." Draco laughed and took another drink, stomach revolting on him. His head was all muddled and blurred and his tongue felt thickened and furry, words coming out disjointed and nonsensical. Fuck he was so drunk. Nymphadora was looking at him with her head canted a little to one side, eyes narrowed and swirling with pity and concern. He hated that expression. Didn't want her pity.

"After what I did…" He frowned, trying to make sense of his thoughts and failing. "I don't deserve her forgiveness. I – I don't deserve her. An whether I wish I hadn't done it or not, I _did_, and maybe in the end that's for the best, as much as it…doesn't feel like it right now. In the end, if we win I'm going to go on trial, and I know damn well the Wizengamot is going to make an example of me," Nymphadora opened her mouth to protest and Draco glared at her, slamming his glass down on the table so that the cheap port inside sloshed over the rim and trickled wet and cold over his fingers.

"Don't try to reassure me. Don't bloody tell me that I'll get off easy. They won't give a fuck about how much I helped once I defected, and you _know _it. They're…they're going to try to give me the harshest sentence they can get away with. Show what happens to the followers of Dark wizards. Show the wizarding world that, 's'all right, they've got everything under control now, everything's safe again. Hermione – 'Mione doesn't get that, doesn't understand. Too fucking _optimistic_." He snorted with bitter laughter and brought his glass clumsily to his lips, the rim clattering against his teeth as his hand shook. Nymphadora stared at him pityingly. Draco snarled inwardly, fixing her with a bloodshot glare.

"Besides. I'm not going to go beg for bloody forgiveness like some spineless, snivelling wretch, not when it's only going to postpone the inevitable. It's done, and it _is _for the best," Draco insisted, words slurring out in false, jumbled drifts. He was full of shit and he knew it. "I'm not going to try to take back decisions I've made just because I don't like the consequences."

"Oh, so that would explain why you're still a Death Eater, then?" Nymphadora mocked, hands on hips, a sort of tired amusement in her stance, one eyebrow cocked. Draco's lip curled, "That's different."

"Hah. You're being a coward. All this talk of sticking to your decisions and protecting Hermione's feelings in the long run, but it all comes down to two sad little reasons that you've finally admitted. You're afraid, and you're too bloody _proud_ to admit you've messed up and try to fix it."

"Think that if you want," Draco said with faux disinterest, his dirty glass trembling in his hand, giving away the drunken unsteadiness of his muscles, heart beating quick and shallow. She was right. Nymphadora was fucking _right_. "See! Look at you; all bull-headed, pathetic arrogance – not that you have any reason to be. You're just clinging to the shreds of your bloody misplaced pride, because you can't bring yourself to believe Hermione could still give a fig about you, and you're _afraid_. Afraid of rejection now, and of getting hurt later, when we win this war. But you can't see the _trees_ for the _forest_. You're so focused on the future, you refuse to acknowledge all the hurt you're causing _now_." She sighed exasperatedly, pushing her hair back – faded now to more of a mousy brown than red – and arching her back with a small grunt.

Draco hung his head, staring into the depths of his glass, hunched in on himself; Nymphadora's words tearing through him all the worse because he _knew_ she was right and yet he couldn't seem to summon the energy it would take to fix everything. And knowing – being _told_ – he'd fucked up didn't take away any of his fear and guilt and _misplaced pride_. It just piled on top of the self-loathing Draco was already mired in, until he was drowning in it, and it took all he had just to keep his head above water.

Being staggeringly blitzed didn't help either – Draco couldn't think straight, his judgement was shot, and all he felt like doing was seeing how fast he could reach the bottom of his current bottle. Draco smiled dryly; he couldn't even see straight – he wasn't exactly in the best state of mind to deal with complex emotional issues. And he resented Nymphadora for trying to browbeat him into being a good little boy and doing what she told him to – right or not, Draco fucking _hated_ being bossed about. He'd had enough of that in his previous life, running about trying to keep Voldemort happy. '

"Thank you so much, _Nymphadora_. I'll run straight upstairs and beg Hermione to take me back, now that you've shown me the error of my ways," he said bitterly, eyes meeting hers, "And then we'll live happily ever after – oh wait, no we _won't_." Draco turned a scornful sneer on his cousin, slopping more drink into his glass and ignoring Nymphadora's hiss of exasperation. He toasted her sarcastically, smile dripping with drunken contempt, and in response she stepped forward and plucked the glass from his fingers before he could even react. "What –?" he began, and Nymphadora tipped the contents onto the floor, her face set in taut, tired frustration.

"That's my fucking drink!" Draco protested thickly, and she pursed her lips and stared him, the disappointment in her eyes grating on his nerves. She didn't bloody know him – what right did she have to look at him like that, with that sad, disappointed expression? He didn't care about her opinion enough to feel guilted by her, he told himself, scowling. "You've had enough, Draco."

"I fail to see how that's you're decision to make," Draco said, the intended sharp, snarky edge to his tone falling flat as he slurred his way thought the words. "Because I'm sober, and you're not," she answered matter-of-factly. "No, you're crazy on pregnancy hormones," he jibed and wished he hadn't as Nymphadora narrowed her eyes and moved to snag his last bottle of booze off the table. Draco lunged for it, but even with her advanced state of pregnancy slowing her down, Nymphadora was still quicker. "Give it back," he ground out and Nymphadora smirked at him. "No. Molly's right. You're drinking far too much lately."

"That's my fucking decision." Draco shoved himself to his feet, his anger seething, and the floor suddenly felt like it was undulating beneath his feet, his limbs moving heavy and slow, like pushing through treacle. He stumbled over his own bloody feet as he tried to take a step and grabbed the table to steady himself, hair falling in greasy hanks over his face and stomach churning. "Give it back," Draco snarled, every word enunciated with furious precision. Merlin he was pathetic. Shame burnt in his veins, sharp and hot, and his fingers tightened white-knuckled around the table edge.

"Your decision? Merlin, Draco, you're barely able to stand, let alone make any sort of _decision_. And you're decisions lately haven't exactly been wise choices even when sober, so _no_. I think I'll hang onto this, while you bloody well sober up and sort yourself out," Nymphadora said firmly, and Draco lurched his head up, staring at her through bleary eyes. She shook her head sadly, and turned her back on him; wand held loosely in one hand, precious bottle of port dangling from the other. "Give it back," he half-pleaded, and she paused, pity in every line of her body. "Go to bed, Draco," she said tiredly without looking back, and walked away.

Draco thumped his fist on the table and swayed on the spot, a drunken fucking mess, too far gone to have the self-control to keep from pointlessly degrading himself by begging. "Nymphadora! Give it _back_. You fucking bitch! Give –" But she waved her wand and Draco knew she'd dropped the privacy spell and snapped his mouth shut with a whining growl. He wasn't about to give Krum the fucking pleasure. He fell back into his chair, Nymphadora's words beating in his head. Draco had been wrong. Made the wrong decisions. Fucked up. But…he just couldn't…couldn't seem to bring himself to reach out and try to fix it; not that he truly believed it _could_ be fixed. Images of the Wizengamot swam in front of his eyes. Any _fix_ would be a temporary affair – until they were all killed, or he was dragged off in fucking chains to face _justice._

Draco spat on the floor, saliva flooding his mouth as the port he'd drank threatened to make its reappearance. Misplaced pride, Nymphadora had said. Draco stared at his empty glass sitting forlornly on the tabletop, mouth twisted in a self-deprecating sneer – maybe she was right. Draco didn't really know. He swallowed hard, jaws clamped shut and teeth gritted, trying to will himself not to vomit. His left eyelid began to _twitch_ and he swore and clapped his hand clumsily over it in an attempt to stop the spasms. All Draco knew was that it was so much fucking easier to just drink, and drink, and try to ignore his clawing feelings of regret.

# # #

_**T-Minus 5 [days]**_

"Hi."

Draco spun around guiltily, pointlessly trying to hide the two bottles he'd just thieved from the liquor cabinet behind his back. Hermione sat at the dining room table, where she _hadn't_ been just a second ago; a small pile of silky dark cloth on her lap, and an indecipherable smile hovering on her lips. Draco stared at her wide-eyed, the bottles of piss behind his back clinking together in his precarious grip. Her hair was pulled back into an untidy bun, and bits stuck out messily out, strands hanging loose around her face. She looked too thin; hollows in her cheeks that shouldn't be there, fingers pale and bony, clasped around the small bundle of material in her lap. "Invisibility cloak," she said, answering Draco's unspoken question, her voice ostensibly light, but an undercurrent of nervous tension ran through her tone.

Draco's fingers twitched around the neck of the bottle he held behind his back, and he stood frozen under the weight of her stare, like he was her prey, waiting to be killed. She was beautiful and so fucking _tempting_, even thin and worn, her complexion pallid above her wheat-coloured jersey. The sight of her filled Draco's head with things he couldn't bear to think about. He clenched his jaw and made himself walk away. "Sit down," Hermione said and Draco paused and gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw bunching, shoulders tensing rigid. That wasn't a request, it was a fucking order, and he resented it so much. He turned and looked at her, and she gave her wand a warning flick, nodded at the chair opposite her.

"Sit," she repeated, more strain bleeding through her voice and making Draco want to…he didn't know what. "Or what?" he asked sullenly, resisting even though a part of him – the pathetic, masochistic part – was glad to have the choice taken out of his hands. He wanted Hermione, craved her; as much as it made him feel like shit, Draco still perversely wanted to be near her. "Just _sit_," Hermione said tiredly. So he had no choice but to sit, and he was so pitifully grateful for the chance to drink her in – and call himself a fucking coward who had ruined everything he'd had left. Except that last part didn't appeal quite so much.

He took a deep breath and crossed the dining room to the long table, sat down opposite her and placed his purloined bottle on the table between them. Stared at her, daring her to say something as he broke the seal on one of the bottles of firewhiskey and brought it to his lips. It numbed his tongue and burnt down his throat, and he welcomed the sensation. He hadn't had a drink since yesterday – Molly Weasley was guarding the alcohol like a mother bear, refusing to let him have any more. He'd had to break into the liquor cabinet the old fashioned way, by jimmying the bloody thing open. Merlin, it tasted bloody good. Hermione eyed him with prim and worried disapproval, but said nothing.

Draco wanted to ask her what this was about. Why, after over a week of leaving him alone, she had finally decided to corner him. But he kept his mouth shut. If she wanted to talk to him, she could talk; he wasn't going to make it easy on her. And he didn't really trust himself not to say too much, to reveal too much. So kept his lips wrapped around the bottle of firewhiskey, drinking steadily and trying not to choke as the alcohol hit his empty stomach. Hermione made a harsh sound in the back of her throat, and snagged the other bottle, and Draco pressed his lips together, expecting her to demand the other bottle from him as well. Instead she unscrewed the cap and eyed the bottle suspiciously before sighing in what sounded like defeat, and taking a swig.

He raised an eyebrow, eyes fixed on her like a starving man; the dark slash of her brows, the bruised shadows under her eyes, the plumpness of her lower lip, a sheen of alcohol gleaming on it as she pulled the bottle away from her mouth and spluttered gaspingly. A grin flickered on his face involuntarily as he watched tears burn to her eyes, her hand splaying flat over her chest as she coughed. "God. How can you drink this stuff like that?"

"Like _what_?" Draco asked cautiously, feeling like they were circling around each other, sizing each other up. He didn't know her feelings toward him, or her motives for wanting to speak to him. And instead of telling him what this was about she was sitting and drinking casually, almost as though nothing was wrong. But this was a lie, and something _was_ wrong. _Everything_ was wrong. "Like it's pumpkin juice instead of _this_," she said, shaking the bottle so its contents sloshed, her mouth twisted into a grimace and pink tongue poking out with obvious disgust. Draco grinned again and hid it by taking another drink of firewhiskey, shrugging as he brought the bottle down from his mouth. "You get used to it."

"Obviously," she said, clearly disapproving, but not saying anything more overt than that, instead taking another sip from the bottle, her face screwed up like she was sucking on a lemon. Draco watched as she set it down on the table, clasping it in one hand and picking at the label with stubby fingernails. He couldn't even hope to relax, his own drink a lifeline to questionable sanity, feeling torn between escaping to the cellar with his bottle, or dragging her over the table and kissing her. He shifted in his seat, waiting for her to speak as the silence stretched out uncomfortably. What that hell was Hermione even doing? Why the hell would she even want to talk to him, after…what he'd done. He was fucking confused as shit, and he didn't like it one bit.

"What do you want, Hermione?" Draco asked, unable to stand the silence anymore. "What the fuck – why are you…? I thought you said you were going to leave me alone," he added flatly, and winced as she went stiff and her eyes grew cold and hurt. Draco hadn't meant that he wanted her to leave him alone, but she took it that way and her fingers tensed around her bottle of firewhiskey. "I thought…before everything else, we were…friends." Hermione said the last word hesitantly, letting a shred of paper flutter to the table. "Can't I just want to talk? Like we used to?" Draco clenched his jaw. No – no they fucking couldn't. They couldn't talk like they used to, because things weren't like they used to be. And it was ridiculously naïve for Hermione to think that they could just _forget _everything that had happened, and act like nothing was wrong. Why would she even _want_ to?

"That's not fucking fair. That's not _fair_, Hermione. You can't expect me to sit here and _talk_ to you like I didn't _hurt_ you, like we haven't…like I don't want… But I _can't_ and I fucking _hate _you, I hate myself, and there's nothing…nothing…" Draco broke off, and looked away from Hermione, cheeks flaming, swilling down his drink in a pointless attempt to escape. If he got drunk enough he wouldn't have to care, would have to think about. Except in reality, it never quite worked that way. Didn't stop him from trying, though. "Don't. Just _don't_," Hermione pleaded, voice breaking under the strain, angry and desperate. "I bloody well know it's not fair, but it's not _my_ fault, it's _yours_."

"I don't understand." Draco looked up from his bottle and examined Hermione as if he'd find the answers in her paled face, or in the tense, almost brittle way that she sat, or in the way her nails picked compulsively at the firewhiskey label. But all Draco saw was a teenage girl – woman, really, by both wizarding and Muggle standards – who was wearier than should be allowed, brown eyes dull and hurt, nails bitten raggedly, an odd pleading in the way she stared into his eyes. She sighed, "I know that we can't – that you don't – _Merlin_." She drank and gasped and coughed, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Bit her lip and said in a very small voice, "Draco, I miss you."

"So you what? Want to _pretend?_" he demanded, anger sizzling beneath his skin. He didn't want to have to deal with this. He wanted to go back to his drunken denial in the fucking cellar – he didn't want to have to sit opposite her and think about how he had done the wrong thing, and wonder whether he should do something about it. Fuck, Draco _knew_ he shouldn't have broken up with Hermione, but that didn't mean they should get back together. What was done was done, and leaving things the way they were still might be easier in the long run than trying to mend what they'd had. What he had broken. If their side won the war, he and Hermione would still have to face trials and imprisonment and being ostracized by the majority of wizarding society. It was easier just to leave it, he thought, thinking about what Nymphadora had said and acknowledging that yes, he was a coward, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't.

"Please. Can't you just give me this?" Hermione sounded as weary and defeated as she looked, sitting there all tense and hunched, as if she was going to fall apart at the slightest touch, her eyes wet and hollow and lost. Draco didn't know what to say, but his confused anger faded away, unable to sustain it in the face of her quiet misery. He felt empty, staring into her eyes, and so he tried to fill the hole, bottle to his lips. "So," Draco said a moment later, setting his bottle back down on the table and leaning back in his chair, starting to feel flushed and light-headed as the alcohol worked its magic. "What did you want to talk about?" He couldn't refuse her, not when she looked at him like _that_. Hermione bit her lip and stared down at the small heap of paper shreds she was gathering, and Draco waited for her to say something with irritation and strain humming in his bones. He just wanted to go back downstairs and try to forget everything.

"You know, my parents were never entirely comfortable with me being a witch," Hermione said, quietly at last, breaking the heavy silence. Her eyes darted up to him as she spoke, and then back down to her bottle, nails still working at the label, peeling it away one ragged millimetre at a time. Draco's brow furrowed with bewilderment at Hermione's choice of topic, but he waited for her to continue. "They were supportive, excited that their daughter was _special_, proud of my marks, even though they didn't understand what topics like Transfiguration even _were_. But magic – the wizarding world – always made them uneasy. They were just a couple of ordinary dentists, and a whole world opened up in front of them and sucked their daughter away, and it was strange, and alien, and they were excluded." Hermione paused, and Draco watched her teeth indent her lower lip, his eyes glued to her. It hurt to sit this close and feel so fucking _distant_, but Merlin, he couldn't tear his eyes away.

Her voice was mesmerising, washing over him comfortingly, and he could almost pretend this was _before_. "They didn't trust magic, or magical people. They liked – like – rules, and order and neatness. For things to be logical, consistent; make sense. And magic isn't like that. They always worried that me being a witch was dangerous, that the whole wizarding world was _dangerous_. And they were right. Right from the very beginning, they were right. Right from first year, Harry, Ron and I were putting ourselves in dangerous situations – mostly it was just dumb luck that kept us from getting killed. I look back now and wonder what on _earth_ we were thinking –"

"I imagine Potter and Weasley _weren't_ thinking, as always," Draco couldn't resist saying out of old habit, and Hermione smiled tolerantly. Draco's pulse sped up, his eyes sliding away from hers, emptying the bottle a little more and welcoming the heat the drink kindled in his stomach. Hermione's eyes were disapproving on him as she stripped a bit of label of and dropped it on the table. "And of course we were…_helped_…by a fair few coincidentally relevant tips from Dumbledore, and passageways left unguarded…that sort of thing." There was a hint of dark suspicion in her voice, and she looked up at Draco with a query in her eyes.

"Sometimes I wonder if Dumbledore _deliberately_ helped us – encouraged us. I wonder if he knew what we were doing and…made it easier for us to get away with trying to play the heroes. I mean…he put the task of finding the horcruxes on Harry – and Ron and I by extension – and I _know_ we were of age, but the burden it put on us, the _responsibility_ of having to do it alone…"

"Oh, I'm sure the old bastard knew, and he probably did help you – if you could call it that." Draco thought about how Dumbledore had known all fucking year that Draco had become a Death Eater, that he was trying to kill the Headmaster – and not once had he approached Draco. Not once had he offered to protect him, to get him away from the Death Eaters, to find a solution. All right, Draco knew that back then he might not have listened, but Dumbledore should have _made_ him listen. He was still underage at that point, still too young to know what the fuck to do – and Dumbledore had just let him go on thinking that no one cared, no one knew except for those on the Dark Lord's side. Dumbledore let Draco think that there was no hope, no escape, and no choice but to try to go through with Voldemort's plan – and that hadn't been true. But there was no point thinking about it. It was done now. Draco tried to shake off the mingled feelings of guilt and resentment that always arose when Dumbledore's name came up, and refocused on Hermione.

"Anyway, my point was that my parents were _right_. The wizarding world _is_ dangerous. Look at what we're doing! We're barely adults, and we're fighting a war against a Dark wizard – they were _right_."

"So what, you think you should never have gone to Hogwarts?" Draco asked with a raised eyebrow. That was the logical conclusion to Hermione's ramblings, and yet he didn't think that was what she was trying to say. Merlin, he didn't know what the hell she was trying to say. She smiled and shook her head, "No. If I'd never gone to Hogwarts then I would never have become friends with Harry and Ron, and everyone else I care about. I would have never found a whole other world that I could explore and learn about and revel in. I would never have been in danger, but I wouldn't have had any of the incredible experiences I've had either." She ducked her head and said softly, "And I would never have met you."

"Was it worth it?" he asked bitterly, thinking of Hermione meeting him and not the rest of it, and she seemed to realise that, shrugging and giving him a faint, enigmatic smile. "Of course."

"You still think that?" Draco asked, and then narrowed his eyes, going over what she had said – her seemingly pointless, irrelevant ramblings, which he suddenly realised weren't so _point_less after all. "Fuck. _Fuck_, I understand now. I understand what your little story was about," he spat, fingers tightening around the bottle, a rush of anger tightening his muscles and making his pulse taptaptap harder. "Let me guess, the _moral_ is that it's the journey that matters, not the destination, or some trite shit like that, isn't it?" Hermione looked away from him, a loose sheet of hair falling free from her bun and hiding her face from his accusatory stare.

"This was just another attempt to what, _guilt_ me into being with you?" Draco shoved himself to his feet, the blood whooshing in his ears and vertigo gripping him. He was well on the way to being drunk, but not quite there yet, not quite. "Do you know what you're saying to me, when you tell me we should be together, even if it's all going to fall apart after the war, when I'm dragged off to Azkaban?" His breath was coming shallow and quick with sudden anger as he glared at Hermione, her face still turned away from him, her hands twined tightly around each other.

"You're saying that we should drag things out, even though we both know how it's going to end – torture ourselves with _maybe's _and what if'sand false hope. And that might be all right for you – you're not the one who's going to Azkaban. For you, it _is_ worth it, to have the experience despite the way it _ends_. Merlin knows _why_. But _I can't do it_. So I _can't_ love you, and I _can't_ want to be with you, because I know how it's going to end, and I just can't fucking handle that!" He was throwing his words at her, ragged and furious, trying to make her understand – desperate to make her _understand_ – but he didn't think she _could_. He wrenched his rant to a stop as Hermione turned her head toward him, tucking her loose bits of hair behind her ears, and Draco saw the tears wet on her cheeks. She wiped them away with the end of her sleeve, and nodded dumbly, wounded eyes flicking to his, nodding again.

Draco stood there with his bottle in hand, feeling dizzy and hot and like he had just wrung a kitten's neck, feeling like a fool and a git and a total, unredeemable arsehole. Except it was true, everything he'd snarled at her in his blinding, gasping anger. He _couldn't'_ do it. "Okay," Hermione said almost inaudibly. "Okay. I'm sorry. I won't – I won't try to…again." She screwed the lid back on the bottle of firewhiskey she had taken, and stood, setting it carefully on the table. "I'm sorry," she said again, eyes on the floor, Potter's invisibility cloak balled up in one hand, and Draco gritted his teeth, swallowed hard. Hermione waited for a brief moment, hovering uncertainly her eyes darting up to his every few heartbeats, as if she hoped Draco would change his mind, tell her to stay, but he didn't. He _couldn't_. Even though Nymphadora and Hermione were right about a short time together being better than nothing, Draco just couldn't fucking do it.

"I'm sorry too," he said awkwardly, and Hermione made a stifled sound and nodded again, still making no move to leave. The atmosphere was suffocating, and Draco stood there frozen, not sure what to do. Not wanting to be the one that walked away. But it _was_ him who had walked away from her already. Draco swore under his breath and stepped forward, reaching across the table and wrapping his fingers around Hermione's abandoned bottle of firewhiskey, the two misappropriated bottles clinking together quietly as he backed away. Hermione slumped bonelessly back down on her chair as Draco retreated, her shoulders hunched and her eyes on the scrunched up invisibility cloak clutched tightly in her hands.

He tried very hard to ignore the quiet sound of her beginning to cry as he descended into the cellar.

# # #

_**T-Minus 3 [days]**_

Draco was warm, and hard, and he tasted like alcohol and smelt like sweat, and his hand was fisted in her hair, his mouth pinned to hers. Hermione's heart pounded jaggedly and her hips bucked out against him, insides melting and twisting and _throbbing_ with want. In the pantry, again. It hadn't been planned, it had just…happened. Hermione had been rummaging about in the pantry for a late night snack – she couldn't sleep – and then Draco's hand had clasped around her arm. She had jumped with fright, not knowing it was him, and when she turned around and saw him, her breath had caught in her throat. He had looked at her wordlessly; grey eyes feverishly bright, the waft of alcohol off him strong enough to make her feel like she could get drunk off the fumes. And then he had kissed her. And _now_ Hermione was shoved back up against the shelves stacked with tins and cereal boxes, Draco pressed against her and kissing her like he was trying to crawl inside her skin, like he was marking his territory, trying to make her shatter apart with the force of her desire. And he was succeeding.

Hermione was melting, Draco's maimed arm tight around her waist, her hands searching under his shirt, desperately, hungrily, sliding over every inch of his skin. It had been so long since she'd touched him like this, and she was starving for him, and he felt so familiar, skin smooth and warm beneath her hands, his heart juddering in his chest. Draco's skin prickled into goosebumps as Hermione swept her fingers lightly over his stomach and he whimpered into her mouth, sparking off her own rush of want and she echoed his muffled whimper. He let go of her hair and his hand slipped beneath her top, cupping her breast and smoothing his thumb teasingly over first one nipple, then the other. Hermione ached and throbbed and _wanted_ him, Draco's tongue was slick and hot and tantalising on hers, triggering sharp pulses of arousal that clenched in her belly, and she mewed and moaned again.

Hermione didn't know why Draco was doing this, what had changed his mind, but god, she didn't care. She was so _happy_. The taste of firewhiskey on his tongue made her mouth tingle, and her right hand slid around his waist and splayed flat on his back, her heel of her left hands palm smoothing over the scars Bellatrix had carved into him; those almost-pretty ridged swirls on the left side of his abdomen. Draco shivered and his hand shifted, softly down her body, making her spine prickle. His fingers wriggled beneath the waist of her pyjama pants and over her bum, squeezing it and kneading it, and making her wriggle and gasp with nervous surprise. But it felt right, his hand gripping the curve of her arse, and she smiled into their kiss.

Draco's lips were so soft on hers and his eyes were fluttered shut, lashes long and startlingly dark against his pale skin. Hermione's hand went to his cheek, the nails of the other gently digging into his back, scratching the skin lightly. She cupped Draco's face as he kissed her, head bent to hers, lips and teeth tugging on her lower lip, tongue teasing hers and sending jolts of lust through her that made her whole body _throb_. His face felt unfamiliar under her fingertips, stubbled as it was with the makings of two weeks without shaving, prickly and alien. But still Draco. Her Draco. She didn't know what had made him come up here and kiss her, but the thrill that he had bubbled in her chest. He wanted to be with her. He wanted her. She sucked on the tip of his tongue and then swept hers over his lower lip, and his hand tightened on her bum.

And then Hermione drew back a little from their desperate snog, dropping gentle kisses on his parted, kiss-swollen lips, a smile tugging at her mouth. Draco opened his eyes and looked at her, glazed and quicksilver, and she drove her fingers into his hair, pulling his head down so that their foreheads rested together, noses touching. He blinked and opened his mouth to say something, but Hermione was already speaking, a warm happiness glowing inside her. "I love you so much," she murmured, and Draco stiffened as if she'd struck him, jerking back from her so fast that he stumbled and staring at her with horrified grey eyes. And she knew, immediately, and felt like such an _idiot_. This – this hadn't been about finding her and fixing things. Her chin trembled and her face went hot with humiliation. She looked away from him, unable to hold his eyes, mortified and hurt beyond belief, that happy warm glow that had suffused her turning into a dead, leaden feeling that was heavy and hollow at once.

This had been about Draco being drunk and accidentally coming across her in the pantry, and giving into his baser bloody desires. Not about changing his mind, just about a drunken lapse in judgement. The kiss that Hermione had thought was an apology, a promise, a sign that he had changed his mind…it had been nothing more than drunken, meaningless fumbling to him. Hermione felt tears flood her eyes and tried to hold them back, pressing her lips together hard to try and stop her chin and lips from quivering with the sobs that wanted to come tumbling wretchedly out. Draco was running his hand through his hair and staring at her helplessly, horror and sympathy flooding his features as he realised what he'd done – what Hermione had taken it to mean. "I – I didn't mean…" he tried weakly and Hermione felt anger rush through her, mingling hot and awful with her humiliation; she didn't want his drunken _pity_. "Don't. Just _don't_," she choked out and blindly shoved her way past him, her whole body _hot_. She felt so _stupid_.

Hermione fled through the dining room, flying past Mrs Weasley in a paisley brunch coat, ignoring her concerned call of, "Hermione dear, what's wrong?" She thundered up the steps to her room, and slammed the door shut with a bang, not caring who she woke up, and sank into a heap on her bed. She glared at the door, rubbing away her tears angrily; grabbed up her pillow, clutched it to her face and _screamed_ into it. Stupid, Hermione thought ferociously, stupid, stupid, _stupid_. She wasn't sure if she was berating herself or Draco; she thought maybe both. Stupid drunken _git_, and stupid her, to take his actions as anything other than intoxicated idiocy.

Hermione cried into the pillow; snotty, gasping sobs, wondering bleakly how on earth her and Draco could ever work out, when he was acting like this. Wondering why Draco insisted on denying his feelings even though being _drunk_ was apparently all it took to push him past his denial and into desperately ravishing her in the pantry. She wondered if she should even _want_ to be with him, with the way he was acting. Ron had been right the other day – she deserved someone who appreciated her, someone who didn't let the threat of possible bleak future destroy what they had in the present. The problem was, Hermione thought, that she loved Draco. And she didn't _want_ anyone else, no matter how together and appreciative and perfect they might be. She wanted _Draco_.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ Next chapter, the countdown reaches zero! Countdown to _what_, you ask? You'll have to wait and find out :D

This chapter was a lot of fun to write – it was nice to have a dedicated Ron scene, I love it when Tonks gets snippy with Draco, and writing awkward, drunken, conflicting emotions is _so fun_. It was one of those chapters that I re-read and thought, yup, I'm happy with that.

So what did you think? Did you like it? Were the characterisations all right? Yay, cute Ron/Hermione scene? Do you think I explained Draco's motivations behind not being with Hermione well in _T-Minus 5 [days]?_ I've consistently found his motives rather difficult to articulate emotively/strongly, and I feel like I finally got his feelings across in a way that made sense toward the end of that scene.

Oh, and there was foreshadowing in this chapter relating to when knowledge of their relationship comes completely out in the open – which was probably too subtle and cryptic to be noticeable, to be honest, but just so you know, lol.

Anyway, pretty please _review/comment_ and give me all the loves (ALL THE LOVES, I SAY!) – I have the lofty goal of reaching 350 reviews this chapter ::pathetically pleading face::

Until next time, my lovelies!


	33. Lycanthropy, Part 2: Wasted

_Author's Note: _ Finally, the next chapter is up! Life has been horribly busy of late and writing has been put on the backburner a little, but I've got it done at last :) Thank you so much to all my reviewers! You guys are as amazing as ever. Hearts for you all...bloody, still-beating hearts… ::cough:: This chapter is definitely M-Rated. Younglings beware :D

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Lycanthropy , Part 2: Wasted**_

# # #

But it was not your fault but mine

And it was your heart on the line

I really fucked it up this time

Didn't I my dear?

[Little Lion Man, Mumford and Sons]

# # #

_**T-Minus 1 [day]**_

Hermione frowned as she sat down at the table, wondering what was so important that Remus had called an Order meeting, when they'd just had one that morning. "Right," Remus began, seated at the head of the table with Tonks standing behind him, her hands kneading her spine; she had passed her due date yesterday, and was well ready for her pregnancy to be over. She hadn't been fun to be around, the past few days. Hermione looked around the table; everyone was there, even Draco, who looked exhausted and sullen and not quite sober, his eyes glued to a nondescript spot on the table in front of him.

She looked away, heart aching and cheeks flushing as she remembered the way he'd looked at her in the pantry two days ago, as he realised what she had assumed. God, she felt so stupid. She swallowed and tried to clear her head, focusing on the present. Apart from the Order members who resided in the Godric's Hollow house, there were also three Aurors; two women and a man, hard and worn looking, in ragged cloaks with light leather duelling armour beneath, scuffed and stained. Tiptree, Truffle and…Johns, Hermione thought their names were.

It was hard to remember.

Most of the time Hermione didn't bother remembering names unless she was working on the same team as the Auror. The Aurors came and went, from Order house to Order house, usually only assisting on serious missions. There were too many battles to fight, and not enough people to fight in them, and so the Aurors travelled all over the country, never staying in one place for more than three or four days at a time. It was a sad testimony to the state of Magical Britain and the bravery of the average witch and wizard that most of the people fighting in the way were Aurors, and Order of the Phoenix members - who mostly comprised of ex-Hogwarts students who had only just come of age – or not even that yet. The vast majority of them had been members of Dumbledore's Army, and their loyalty to Harry was legend.

"As you might have heard," Remus began, "There has been a large spate of both wizarding and Muggle deaths in Ballater, in Abderdeenshire. Twenty-three people dead in a town of a little under two thousand, all within the past three days." Hermione blanched at the number, but the name of the place rang a bell, and she automatically stuck her hand up in the air. "You don't have to wait to be called on, Hermione," Remus said dryly and Hermione ducked her head, flustered. "I, ah. Isn't that near Balmoral Castle? The ah, Muggle royals'…"

"One of the Muggle royal family's residences? Yes, it is. Why do you ask?"

"You don't think you-know-who would go after the Muggle monarchy, do you?"

"No." Mr Weasley answered, shaking his head, "He'd have no reason to. The Muggle monarchy doesn't have any real power, do they? So there would be no reason for him to target them at this point. Not until he begins attempting to openly conquer Muggle Britain."

"Yes," Johns spoke, his voice as rough and ragged as the rest of him, "_Then_ he'd look to taking them down; an object lesson for the Muggle community, a blow to British Muggle morale. But for now he'd have no interest in them. No, from what Jinx and Delia discovered scouting the town out, it looks like it's a pack of werewolves doing the murdering – and an informant confirms it. It's not being done under Voldemort's orders, we don't think; just killing for the sheer fun of it."

"Werewolves? Did you see them?" Wood asked and one of the women; short and petite to the other woman's Amazon stature, raven black hair to the other's red, answered in a clipped voice, "No. But we trust our informant – and, we saw the bodies. From the state of the remains, there's no doubt – werewolves for sure." Hermione gulped, "How – how can you tell?" Her eyes slipped involuntarily to Remus, and then back to the short, dark-haired woman, whose hand rested lightly on her wand in its holster on her left hip, and whose dark eyes seemed constantly alert.

"Never much left after a pack gets through with a victim. That alone makes it obvious. But there's ways as you can tell. The shape of the bites, the type and number of claw marks, that sort of thing. This pack seems particularly vicious as well," the dark-haired woman – Jinx? Delia? – snapped out.

"Greyback's?" Remus' fingers were pinched tight on the quill in his grasp, and Tonks' hand massaged into Remus' shoulder as she stood behind him. Hermione watched as Remus' fingers slowly relaxed, and for a brief moment she was jealous of what they had; and then ashamed of herself for feeling that way. They both deserved to be happy.

"Possibly." The tall, solid woman said with quiet clarity, her voice husky and mellow, "The unusual viciousness makes it likely." Remus dropped the quill to the table and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "How many?"

"Maybe, thirty in the pack, we estimated. Wasn't it, Delia?" the shorter woman, now marked in Hermione's head as Jinx Truffle, asked her fellow Auror. "Twenty at least, thirty at most," Delia Tiptree answered concisely, and Remus gave a quiet groan. "They're going to keep killing, while they can. Maybe another twenty or so deaths, and then they'll know they have to move on or risk getting hampered in their _activities_." Hermione shivered. _Activities_. It sounded so ordinary a word for such perverse, evil crimes, and she noticed she wasn't the only one looking queasy.

"Greyback's turning more people," Harry spoke up, jaw tight and voice grim, and awful, sick weariness on his face, "He's getting _worse_." Ginny's face was hard and worried as she hovered behind Harry.

"He is." Johns folded his arms over his chest with the creak of leather, and eyed Harry carefully, and Hermione noted Johns' reaction. He looked at Harry as if he was dangerous, or a fool. And maybe Harry was, at this point. He had always a little headstrong, and didn't always think things through – had always taken things to heart. But now, after this news, Harry looked almost as though he might be cracking up.

"We have to stop the pack. And Greyback," Harry insisted with quiet vehemence, and Remus' face was curiously gentle as he said, "We're going to try Harry." Harry nodded slowly, green eyes bright and brittle, and Hermione found herself wondering how bad a state Remus thought Harry was in. Harry _had_ been awfully stressed just lately. Two Muggles had been skinned and hung up in Diagon Alley yesterday, and when Harry had heard they had been glamour charmed to look like him afterward, he hadn't taken it well.

Lately, it was as though Harry blamed himself for every single death in this horrible war, and no matter how often Hermione or anyone else tried to convince Harry it wasn't his fault, he just looked away like he wasn't even listening. Nodded and said yes and no in all the right places, but then sometimes half-way through a reassuring sentence he would murmur something about _failed_ and _horcruxes_, and after that it was impossible to get him to even pretend to listen. Ginny said – quietly, out of Ron's hearing – that when she spent the night in Harry's room, she had noticed he had nightmares, often several times a night. He talked and moaned and begged incoherently in his sleep, and sometimes he cried.

Hermione ran her hands through her hair. She wasn't surprised that Harry was a mess. They were _all_ a bloody mess at the moment. Ron was tied up in knots about proposing to Cho, Ginny was worried for Harry's mental health, Remus was frightened to death regarding Tonks' and the coming baby, Hermione was miserable over Draco, and Draco…well, he was _Draco_. How were they supposed to fight a war when they could barely keep themselves together?

"So how are we going to do it?" Ron asked briskly, sitting forward, eyes gleaming. Remus looked a little uncomfortable for a moment. "Well…we don't know where the pack is based," he started, "but we know someone who does…"

"The informant you mentioned?" Hermione asked, feeling a little uneasy as she saw Remus glance away uncomfortably. He cleared his throat, "Yes. Tiptree, Truffle and Johns were contacted when they first arrived in Ballater – the informant left them a message in their room at the inn they were staying in. They – it's only one person, we believe, but we don't know if it's a man or a woman – said they want to get out of the Death Eaters. To exchange information that will help us stop the werewolves, in return for the guarantee of the safety and protection of the Order."

"So what's the problem?" Hermione asked quietly, knowing that there must be one from the way Lupin looked – worried and strained, stubble a dark rough stain over his jaw, eyes nervous and tight. His eyes flicked to Draco, and Hermione followed them, her gaze lingering on the blond – slouched there with his eyes downcast, looking like he wanted to shrink into nothingness. She didn't know if she wanted to kiss him or hit him. Maybe both – not necessarily in that order.

"The informant will only deal with Draco, no one else," Remus said reluctantly, and there was a collective indrawn breath, and _everyone_ looked at Draco in askance. She watched as Draco hunched his shoulders further up as he felt the weight of their eyes, and then his lips twitched and he set his jaw, straightened his spine – face hard, the line of his neck and shoulders taut, grey eyes cold.

"Well, isn't that interesting," Draco drawled as if he didn't care that they were all staring at him in horror – the drunk, the defector, the person who was less capable of duelling than little Colin Creevy at the moment. "It's so nice being needed." There was a touch of nastiness to his voice, and Hermione could tell he was trying to appear like the old arrogant, perfectly together Malfoy, but a stumbling slur in his voice gave him away and ruined the act. The two weeks worth of stubble growth and hollow eyes and cheeks didn't help either. She frowned at him, pitying and hateful at the same time. Ron laughed. "We better sober him up first," he said bluntly, grinning as Draco shot the redhead a murderous glare. "Fuck you, Weasley."

"No thanks, I'd rather not. I'm flattered, though," Ron sniped back with a smarmy smirk, and Draco pushed himself to his feet, face a mask of drunken anger and Hermione's cheeks went hot with embarrassment for him. He was making a fool of himself, taking Ron's bait – couldn't he see it? _Sit down,_ she thought desperately at him, but before Draco could snarl back at Ron, Remus cleared his throat and gave both boys a stern look, "This is not a joke, or a game, or a situation that can be taken anything other than _seriously_. We go to meet the informant just outside Ballater tomorrow just after sunset, and we'll most likely be attacking the werewolves at midnight." He paused and gave Draco – who was still standing frozen, glaring blearily at Ron – a mildly reproving glance, "Please sit down, Draco."

Draco growled under his breath and Hermione's scalp prickled, a shiver running through her at the low, furious sound. She watched him as Remus spoke in his mild tones, which belied the gravity of the situation. "We can't spare anyone else for this mission, not with the attacks in Europe, and the fighting in the south. It's down to us." He looked around the table, taking in the people sitting around it, and Hermione shifted nervously, counting up everyone who was fit to fight – there were twenty-one of them, if you didn't count Karkaroff, who _could_ fight, but usually hid away like a rat in his hole and sent his escort out to do his work for him.

Twenty-one of them, and twenty to thirty untransformed werewolves. It would be all depend on how skilled the werewolves were at duelling while in human form, and the Order would either have equal numbers, or be outnumbered. And if anyone got bitten…even if the 'wolves were human, there would still be repercussions, of course. Hermione felt a cold chill come over her, and she hugged herself, eyes sweeping over the others and falling to rest on Draco. He still stared at Remus, but he looked hunched and crumpled again, gnawing nervously on his lip.

"Draco will speak to the informant, we'll get the information we need, and then we'll attack if possible – the full moon is in just a few days, and the killings will only get worse. We have to act now," Remus continued. "So yes, Draco – I wouldn't have put it quite the way Ron did –" he gave Ron a pointed look, "But no drinking between now and the mission. We need you in top form." Draco looked somewhere between mortification and fury, but he just nodded shortly, a scowl darkening his face. Lupin nodded in response and sighed.

"Everyone else…get ready. I don't anticipate this will be an easy fight. You all know what Greyback is like." Remus sounded pained, and Tonks' hands soothed over his shoulders lightly, and Hermione felt that pang of jealousy again.

"So you can't tell us anything else? Such as…our likely rate of success, perhaps?" one of the Weasley twins asked with a grin, and Remus shook his head. "No. We won't know anything more until we've met with the informant. So be prepared for anything." He stood, signalling the meeting's end, and Hermione found herself swapping worried glances with her friends, everyone silent and nervous. Normally Remus was unshakable, but he was clearly rattled by the idea of facing Greyback and a horde of werewolves, and that scared Hermione. Remus wasn't worried for himself; he was worried for everyone else. And that fear trickled through the room, infecting everyone with a nameless dread.

Hermione tried to shake it off with a deep breath, turning her mind to the mission, and practical matters. She would need that old Auror armour they'd used on the Hogwarts mission. It had been getting mended this whole time – the mission had destroyed some of the wards and spells laid into the leather and it was taking longer than expected to renew them. But finished or not, the armour would be better than nothing. She needed to make sure her belt kit was filled with fresh medical supplies, and get a portkey from Kingsley. She needed to… Draco was getting up and walking away, scraping his hair back, bruised shadows beneath his eyes that she want to soothe away, and wounded tension – that she knew how to cure, Hermione thought with a bitter curl to her mouth. Not that he would ever give her a chance.

"You all right, 'Mione?" Ron's voice broke through Hermione's thoughts as she sat and stared with unfocused eyes at Draco, stalking unsteadily down into the cellar. She didn't care how much he'd hurt her, she just wanted to kiss him, to feel his arms encircle her, and his lips press warm and soft on her skin. She was pathetic. Ridiculously so. "Yeah," Hermione said, realising she was the only one left at the table and shoving herself to her feet, "I'm fine." She hoped Draco would be. He couldn't do this drunk – he'd get himself killed. "Who do you think the informant is?" Ron asked as Hermione followed him and Cho out of the dining room, Cho still on crutches, swinging herself along with practiced ease.

"I don't know. A Slytherin from our year at school?" Hermione said absently, silently worrying about Draco; wondering if she should make sure he stopped drinking between now and the mission, and cringing from the thought of having to talk to him. He wouldn't listen to her if she told him not to drink, anyway. He'd probably drink more just to spite her. A furrow appeared between her brows, and Ron's wild guesses as to the informant's identity went in one ear and out the other, as Hermione wondered if Harry would let her borrow his invisibility cloak again, a vague scheme involving sneaking down to Draco's room and stealing his hidden liquor stash fomenting in her head.

# # #

_**T-Minus 12 [hours]**_

"Relax, Hermione. I'm sure it'll be fine. Mum hid all the booze last night – there's no way Draco could have gotten his hands on any," Ginny tried to reassure Hermione, but Hermione _wasn't_ reassured. She knew Draco, and she was sure he would have a stash hidden somewhere that the others wouldn't find it. With the way he'd been drowning himself in liquor, he wasn't about to let his supply be taken away from him. God, Hermione worried about him so much. It would be so much easier if she could just hate Draco for everything he'd done, but try as she might, she _couldn't_. She loved him and she couldn't seem to stop. She just wished…

"Hi Hermione," Harry said from the doorway of Hermione's room, and then shot Ginny a sickly sweet soft smile, "Hi Ginny." The redhead beamed back at him, but before she could say hello to Harry, Hermione was interrupting. "Well?" she asked Harry intently, fingers fiddling with the decorative stitching on her newly mended bracer, the rest of the Auror armour spread out over the bed between her and Ginny. Harry bit his lip, running his hand through his scruffy black hair, trying without success to smooth the spiky mop. "I went down under the invisibility cloak like you asked, and…you were right. He's got a bottle of firewhiskey – Merlin knows how."

"Is he drunk?"

"He's sitting on his bed, staring at a Scrabble board with your name spelt out in the tiles, halfway through a bottle of firewhiskey, talking rubbish to himself. Yeah, I'd say he's pretty well drunk, 'Mione."

"My – my name?" Hermione stuttered, distracted by the thought of him spelling out her name. Thinking about her. Wanting her and not letting himself have her. God, he was so infuriating. She wrenched herself back on track, irritation simmering beneath her skin. "I _told_ Remus to keep an eye on him. I _knew_ he'd have bottle of something stashed away," she groused wearily, contemplating going down to the cellar and confronting Draco. Taking his firewhiskey away from him. Well _that_ would go well, she thought dryly and her face screwed up in displeasure. She _could_ ask Remus to do it, but Hermione couldn't shake the feeling – the _stupid_ feeling – that Draco was hers. Her responsibility.

"He's really not taking it well, for being the one that broke up with _you_," Harry stated the obvious, scowling angrily. For someone who had been horrified by the idea of Draco and Hermione in a relationship, he'd certainly been furious when Hermione finally told him that it had ended. And he kept bringing it up, again and again, and Hermione was sick of it. She puffed out an irritated breath. "I _do_ remember, Harry. You don't have to keep reminding me," she said tartly, and he looked instantly contrite. "Sorry." There was a moment of awkward silence.

"I'm hungry. What's mum made for lunch?" Ginny announced abruptly, and Harry blinked, and refocused on Ginny with a smile. "Roast beef with all the trimmings. For the special occasion," he added with a grimace. No one was feeling comfortable with the mission tonight, Remus' uneasiness affecting all of them. "Delicious," Ginny said heartily, unfolding herself from Hermione's bed and glancing down at Hermione, who made no move to get up. "Aren't you coming down for lunch?" Ginny asked, and Hermione shook her head, poring over the stitching on her spaulders – the mended tears and the lacy, tickling feeling of the spells imbued into the leather. "No. I'm not hungry."

"You should eat – you need to keep your strength up for tonight," Harry said and Hermione shot him a glare. "I'm not hungry. I don't feel like eating. I never do before a mission. Stop – stop trying to cheer me up. I'm perfectly _fine_," she snapped, sounding anything but fine. Harry looked like he wanted to argue, but Ginny slipped her hand through his and tugged on it. "Come on, Harry. Don't fuss; Hermione doesn't have to eat if she doesn't want to." Hermione gave Ginny a grateful smile, and sank back against the wall behind her bed as Ginny led a reluctant Harry away.

She picked at the stitching on a spaulder as Harry and Ginny's footsteps faded down the hallway, wondering how on earth she was supposed to approach Draco.

_Give me your alcohol or I'll hex you. _

_Please, give me the firewhiskey._

_Stop drinking you stupid, irritating git!_

She sighed and rubbed a hand over her face, telling herself not to be silly. It wasn't a big deal. She'd just go down to the cellar and say…

# # #

_**T-Minus 10 [hours]**_

"Remus said you weren't supposed to be drinking," Hermione said as she shoved the light sliding door to Draco's partitioned-off room open with a bang. He jumped and jerked upright, caught on his bed with the bottle of firewhiskey halfway to his lips. He shot a quick look at Hermione from under his dark lashes, and then settled back more comfortably on his bed, and took a brazen swig from the bottle. "You said you'd leave me alone," he mocked her, and Hermione's fists clenched at her sides. The bastard. "_Muffliato,_" she muttered and slid the door shut behind her. "Why don't you poke your tongue out at me too? _Honestly_, Draco. This has nothing to do with you and me – this is about you needing to be sober so that you don't get yourself killed tonight." She tried to be calm and casual, but she was hot and sweaty with nerves, and her chest felt tight, pulse too quick.

"Miss Goody-two-shoes," Draco spat, and Hermione realised just how drunk he was as his slurred barb struck home. "Always so intent on doing the right thing, poking your nose into other people's business and making a self-righteous nuisance of yourself," Draco continued, expression pained, the dark slashes of his eyebrows scrunched together, eyes narrowed. He dropped his head back against the wall and took another long drink, looking away from Hermione as if ignoring her would make her go away. "I just don't want you to be _drunk_ on a mission, you stupid clot. And if it weren't me asking you to hand over your alcohol, it'd be someone else. So just give it here, and I'll _leave you alone_." Hermione couldn't keep the spitefulness Draco's hurtful words provoked in her out of her voice, and he flinched and his lips flattened together, still staring at the wall rather than her face.

"You're not _asking_. If you were just asking, well – I've already given you your answer." He ducked his head; muttering as if it hurt him, "Piss off. That's your fucking answer. But you're not _asking_ me, you're _telling_ me."

Hermione rubbed a hand over her forehead, sighing. "Fine. I'm _telling_ you then. Give me the alcohol, and I'll _piss off_." She crossed to the side of the bed, holding out her hand, "Give it here."

"I'll take a potion to sober me up before the mission," Draco countered, holding the bottle by the wall, out of her reach. Hermione shook her head, "No. They're not the same. Your reflexes still won't be as sharp, and your mind won't be as clear. For Merlin's sake, Draco, why are you so _insistent?_ So you can't drink for a few hours – who cares? Are you really that pathetically addicted to it?"

"I'm not _addicted_. I just don't like being told what to do, and I prefer intoxication to sobriety right now," Draco shot back nastily, stumbling over the word intoxication, and Hermione rolled her eyes. "Listen to yourself!"

"No, _you_ fucking listen to me," he snarled, the words messy and slurred in his mouth, flicking his eyes at her and then away again, like it hurt to look at her. "If I want to drink, I'm going to, and you can piss right off with your little caring act. Just stop pretending to give a fuck, and leave me alone. What I do isn't your business anymore. Maybe you should try to remember that." Draco swore under his breath as he finished his tirade and drank some more, and Hermione was caught in a rush of white-hot hurt. How _dare_ he insinuate she didn't care? He bloody well _knew_ she still cared about him. It was _him_ who had stopped caring, not her. She fought a sudden urge to rip the damned bottle out of his hand and smack him over the head with it. Hot, angry tears pricked behind her eyes.

"I do care! You – you fucking _arse_, of _course_ I care! It's not me who pushed _you_ away. It's not me who broke _your_ heart. And you know it, you're just – just trying to hurt me, you cruel, horrible _bastard!_" Hermione retorted vehemently, and his face flickered with hurt as she swore at him, his eyes shut and his lips pressed so tightly together they were a bloodless line. And then Draco opened his eyes and looked up at her impassively. "I thought this wasn't about us?" he asked, voice flat, and Hermione growled with frustration. How did he always manage to get her so angry? Tangle her up in knots? "It's not. I – it's not. God," she dragged her hand through her hair, and then gestured at the firewhiskey, "Just give it here. Please, Draco. Just…"

He wasn't going to. Hermione knew it, and yet she still stood there like an idiot, her hand outstretched, waiting. "I'm not some bloody child you can order about, Granger. If I want to have a few drinks to relax, I fucking well will." _Granger._ Once, what felt like a long, long time ago, that would have sounded normal coming out of Draco's mouth, saturated with drunken contempt and disgust as it was, but now…now it just sounded alien. Jarring and wrong. She wasn't supposed to be _Granger_ to Draco, she was _Hermione_. And he loved her, and she loved him, and nothing was supposed to be like _this_. God, it hurt so much.

"Relax. Hah. If you're relaxed, then I'm a pigeon," Hermione said hotly, amazed at how normal she sounded, as if she wasn't trying desperately not to cry or slap him. She sounded like irritated Granger, exchanging barbs with Malfoy, she thought and bit her tongue, the sharp pain keeping her tears at bay, while a calmer corner of her mind was busy calculating what her chances were of grabbing the bottle away from Draco without a struggle. Draco raised an eyebrow at her choice of phrasing, and she expected him to say scathingly, _a __pigeon__, Granger?_ But instead he just looked away and shrugged. "I'd probably be more _relaxed_ if you weren't invading my privacy and badgering me incessantly."

"I just –" Hermione began softly, wanting to tell him that she didn't understand why he was doing this to them both, that if he'd just let her back in, it would all go away and he wouldn't be sunk in drunken misery. _She_ wouldn't be sunk in horribly sober misery. "_No_." Draco wouldn't even let her start, shifting abruptly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Their knees bumped together as he put his feet on the floor, and Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and glared down at him, refusing to back off. He glared back, shaking his fringe out of his narrowed eyes. It hurt; a dull, sick ache deep inside, to see him look at her like that. She should be used to it by now, but she wasn't. God, she wasn't.

Their eyes locked, both of them refusing to look away and admit defeat. Grey irises in bloodshot corneas, a starburst of that bright, silvery palest grey haloed around dilated pupils, all of it set in bruised, hollow sockets. Hermione's arms slipped from their defensive lock across her chest, and her right hand twitched, fingers flexing, itching to reach out and trace the lines of his thin face. Her hand lifted, and with her heart beating like a terrified rabbit's, she reached out. _Let me. Just let me. Everything will work out; everything will be fine if you just let it happen,_ she begged in her head, a silent and desperate mantra, eyes still wide on his. _Please. We need this._

And then Draco shoved her hand away with his, the bottle clunking sharply against her knuckles, the liquid inside sloshing weakly. Hermione jerked her hand back, cradling it in her other, her knuckles throbbing as she tried to process the hurt of his rejection. It was what she should have expected, but somehow it still hurt just as much as if it had been a surprise. Draco stood as she stared at him stupidly, and his arm – held defensively across his body – bumped into her breasts. She took a stumbling step back, and his voice pierced her ears, the terse words, "Get out," ringing in her head. It took Hermione a moment to comprehend them, and impatient Draco repeated them, more forcefully this time, "_Get out._"

Hermione faltered for a moment, wanting to follow Draco's command and flee to her room to cry on Ginny's shoulder, and agree with Harry's angry ranting. How could Draco be so cruel? She was only trying to _help_; this wasn't even about _them_, it was about _him_. Hermione straightened and braced her feet on the floor, stared defiantly up at him. "No. Not until you give me the firewhiskey."

"No."

"Draco…" she began warningly, and he narrowed his eyes. "_No_." He went to lift the damned bottle to his lips, and Hermione lost patience and lunged forward, snatching at it. He was drunk, reflexes dulled – it should have been easy. It wasn't, Hermione thought absently as he whipped the bottle up out of her reach and kicked her legs out from under her. Luckily the bed mostly broke her fall as she collapsed in an undignified heap, trying to work out what had just happened. She shoved herself to her feet and spun around to fix Draco with a dangerous look. "You _bastard_."

"I'm not giving what you want, Hermione. I'm never going to give you what you want," he said wearily. "Just go."

Hermione jutted her jaw out and gritted her teeth, inwardly acknowledging the irritating subtext to his words. "I will when you give me the stupid, bloody alcohol." It was a matter of _principle_ now, and Hermione refused to stir from that room until Draco did what she asked. "For fucks sake, I'm not going to," he snarled with a rough note of frustration, glaring at her as if he hated her. Hermione told herself she _knew_ he didn't, and drew a sharp breath as she remembered what Harry had said. She glanced past Draco at the small table, and saw the Scrabble board, the ragged line of letters in the centre.

"What's that?" she asked slyly, nodding at the board, and Draco's reaction was almost funny. He skittered backwards and swept the pieces off the board with his foreshortened arm, and Hermione neatly plucked the bottle from his hand while he was distracted. Draco spun, expression set in cold fury. "Give it back," he ordered and Hermione shook her head, clasping the stolen item behind her back in both hands. "No."

"You are so fucking _infuriating_," he said angrily, advancing on her. Hermione backed away steadily, "Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about _you_." Her legs hit the side of the bed and Draco was right in front of her, and Hermione knew she should just make a dash for the door now she had his drink, but she didn't. She didn't want to. Draco was inches from her, lips twisted in a sneer she desperately wanted to kiss despite the way it made her feel like dirt. He was so _furious_ and she wanted to hit him and she wanted to kiss him, and she shouldn't do either. Hermione told herself she should wriggle away while she still could, and just leave him alone.

"Give it here," Draco commanded, blocking her against the bed and reaching around her for the bottle. "No," Hermione answered holding the bottle out behind her on the side of his maimed arm, where he couldn't easily get to it. She knew he could take it from her if he wanted, but she wasn't going to make it easy for him. He would have to _make_ her. A bolt of white-hot lust made her belly clench and her breath falter. "Hermione. Give me my fucking drink. _Now_. This isn't a _game_," he ground out past clenched teeth, and she shook her head. "_No_," she threw the word in Draco's face, and smiled at him.

"Oh, for fucks sake." Draco grabbed at Hermione's arm and forced it down by her side, her struggling the whole time, trying to resist. And then the bottle was still in her tight grip, only by her side now, and she smiled at him again. "Now what?" He only had the one hand, and he needed two to take the bottle from her. "Fuck you," he snarled, mouth contemptuous and eyes shadowed, and Hermione grinned mockingly. Draco let go of her arm and grabbed at the bottle, and Hermione held it neatly out of reach. He shot her a murderous stare and bit his lip. "You're behaving like a _child_."

"No, you are," Hermione retorted and poked out her tongue at him, taking an unexpected delight in being as childish as he'd accused her. And then she went tumbling back on the bed, stranded on her back in a mass of twisted blankets, Draco hot and heavy on top of her. The breath whooshed out of her, and her teeth clacked together, and a part of her mind wondered how it was that he was so _heavy_ when he looked so thin. "Get off me," Hermione gasped, arm outstretched still trying to hold the bottle away. Draco propped himself on the elbow of his maimed limb and snatched for the firewhiskey with his long arm, and Hermione bucked and wriggled under him, pushing at his chest with her free hand and trying fruitlessly to slither out from beneath him.

"Get _off_ me," she panted and Draco shook his head, hair flopping over his forehead and tickling her face as he flailed for the bottle. "Give me the fucking drink, you self-righteous _bitch_." He was uncoordinated and blinking glazedly, like a sleepy owl, his alcohol blurred eyes contrasting incongruously with the furious twist of his lips and the seething anger in his voice. Hermione wriggled beneath Draco, shoving at his shoulder and trying to ignore the thrills that being squashed against him like this aroused in her. Draco was drunk, and he needed a shower, and he was _furious_ with her, but he was also hard and hot and lean, and his stubbled cheek rasped against Hermione's jaw as he reached for the bottle, and the sensation sent a pulse of lust through her, making her thighs twitch and her belly tighten with need.

A whimper broke past Hermione's lips as Draco's breath whispered hot on her ear, and she blushed, face flaming, clamping her traitorous lips shut. He heard her – how could he not – and stopped trying to grab the bottle; pushed himself up, looking down at her curiously, and Hermione shut her eyes, humiliated. She peeked up at Draco through her lashes, expecting to see nasty, arrogant amusement on his face, but instead he looked caught half between anger and want, lips parted and eyes wide. And then he shook his head and looked away, setting his mouth in that angry sneer and growling, "Just give me the fucking bottle."

Hermione could feel every inch of Draco crushed against her, including the hard bulge digging into her lower belly, and she bit her lip to hide her instinctive smile. She wriggled her hips, purposely thrusting them up, and a sharp breath broke from Draco's lips. "The bottle, Hermione," he gasped, breathless. Hermione wrapped her legs around his hips, locking him to her, and rocking up against him, and his forehead fell to rest on her temple, his breath hot and short in her ear. He whimpered and then groaned with irritation at the response she was eliciting from him. "The fucking…drink…" Draco struggled the words out with breathless anger, and Hermione opened her eyes and curled her fingers into his hair with her free hand, pulling his head up. He winced at the pain, glaring down at her, "_What_?" and Hermione kissed his sneering mouth.

Her heart juddered wildly in her chest, as, for a brief second Draco was frozen above her; unresponsive and still. His lips were warm but unmoving, and she waited for him to shove her away, reject her as she kissed him; her lips closing over his full lower lip and sucking on it, tugging at it, her tongue sweeping over it teasingly and slipping just barely, tantalisingly, into his mouth, her fingers twined in his hair. She was an idiot. This was ridiculous and pathetic and a very bad decision –Draco wasn't going to want to… And then he growled and his hand drove into the masses of her hair, and his mouth moved against hers, hungry and demanding and filled with a taut, relentless anger.

It was like the two Pantry Incidents all over again; rough and vicious, like Draco was trying to draw blood, to make her hurt and submit, and Hermione did so with a mewling moan. She would do anything if he would just keep kissing her like this; clumsy and greedy in his drunkenness, and she was overwhelmed, drowning in him. She clung to him, just as hungry and desperate as him as he ground his hips into her, his mouth warm and wet and wringing her out, making her blinded by a throbbing _want_.

Draco was everything and all Hermione could feel was him, and her head spun, and he tasted like the hot burn of firewhiskey, and it felt like anger, and his hand cupped the side of her face, thumb stroking her cheek in a strangely tender contrast to their fierce kiss. Vertigo swam over her and Hermione shivered and twitched with dizzy want beneath him as his stubble rasped at the tender skin of her face, his mouth latching around her tongue and sucking on it, lashing over it in light, teasing strokes with his own tongue. She ached for him, wanting him to fill her. Now. _Now. _The bottle of firewhiskey fell from her nerveless fingers onto the bed, rolling away and no doubt anointing the blankets with spills of alcohol, and Hermione didn't care, and Draco didn't notice.

Without conscious decision, Hermione's hands wriggled between their bodies, fumbling at his jeans. Draco lifted his hips up so she could pop his button open, yank his fly down, and his cock sprang free, still caught in the thin fabric of his boxers. This was a bad idea, she thought vaguely, it very irresponsible and stupid and entirely inappropriate and wasn't going to help. She should push him off her now and leave, before things went any further. She didn't need to be hurt by him more than she already had. She shouldn't be doing this with someone who kept pushing her away when he was sober, no matter how he might truly feel about her. Thoughts were cheap, it was actions that counted, and Draco had been treating her horribly. She should stop this drunken, clinging farce and go. It wasn't real, it was just the firewhiskey. She should…

Hermione's fingers curled around his cock through his boxers and Draco made a stifled wanting sound, thrusting into her hand with small needy movements, their kiss faltering. His mouth dragged from hers, his tongue laving hot tracks down her throat that made her womb clench and her clit ache for his touch. She was wrapped in lust, suffocated by it and she told herself that they were hormonal teenagers, trying to justify her frantic, breathless need to herself. Hormonal teenagers. Merlin, she _wanted_ him. She shoved his jeans down further with impatient, jerky motions, and then his boxers followed and her fingers were on his bare silky-hot cock, squeezing and sliding up and down by turns.

Draco's hand still cupped her right cheek, and his fingertips dug into the soft skin there as Hermione moved her hand up and down in small, slow movements. "_Fuck,_" Draco growled tightly, sinking his face into her throat, lips pressing into her skin, hand petting blindly at her cheek, clumsily tender, his thumb rubbing in erratic circles over her jaw. He was kissing her throat; wet kisses that made Hermione's spine shiver, rocking his hips into her hand and growling against her skin, mindless with firewhiskey and want. And she loved that she could do this to him, even as the sensible part of her brain told her that this wasn't a good idea. Did she really want him to shove her away after _this_? Did she want it to hurt _more_?

"More," Hermione managed to get out in a strangled whimper, and like she had broken a spell, Draco jerked back up from her, kneeling between her legs and staring down at her with wide, pupil-swamped eyes. Hermione thought that was it – it was over. Draco would come to his senses now and scramble away from her; tell her to _get out_ in that awful, coldly contemptuous voice. But he was drunk and swaying on his knees and he looked at her like she was the only thing he could see. Hermione's cheeks were hot with stupidly shy embarrassment as she said, "Draco. Please." Begging him not to stop. Draco blinked at her, hand stroking down her jean-clad thigh absently, and Hermione bit her lip and said again, faint and pleading, "_Please_."

Draco hissed out a short breath, angry and frustrated and hungry and _trapped_, grey eyes darkened with an admission of defeat and surrender; and Hermione wondered idly how much they would both regret his decision. And then there was no time to think, it was no time for thinking, because his hand was tugging at her jeans button and she was frantically trying to pull off her jersey and shirt, get her hands around behind her awkwardly to unhook her bra. It was breathless, uncoordinated chaos as they both struggled to strip her clothes off, Draco dragging her bodily off the bed and standing her up, sliding her jeans and knickers down and yanking them off. Hermione stood naked and panting with nerves and effort, feeling oddly self-conscious as Draco kicked his jeans and boxers off impatiently and ripped his shirt over his head.

Merlin, he was thin – too thin and pale, ribs visible, muscles wiry, his cock jutting out in front of him, and, well, _he_ didn't seem self-conscious at all. Hermione bit her lip and grinned half-nervously, taking a step forward and sweeping her fingers hesitantly over the swirling scars Bellatrix had left on his abdomen. Draco flinched back like her touch stung him, and grabbed her wrist, yanking her fingers from his scars. "Don't," he said, slurred and tight with anger, and Hermione's stomach flipped and her chest felt tight. It hurt. She told herself that she couldn't be angry with him; he was drunk and angry and hurting as much as her, and they were making a bad, bad decision in a situation where there were no good choices.

"Sorry," Hermione mumbled, and took a step forward, her palm smoothing down the edge of his jaw, pushing herself up on tiptoes and kissing his parted lips softly. Draco turned his head away; his stubble scratching her lips and her stomach flipped again, her heart sank. Not now, not standing naked in his room pressed against him and wanting him like nothing else in the world existed. He couldn't push her away _now_. She stumbled back, tears in her eyes, and Draco grabbed her, steadied her. "I'm sorry," he said, voice low, avoiding her eyes. "I'm sorry." Hermione waited for Draco to turn away from her, let her go, but instead he kissed her. Hard and frantic, his fingers digging into her upper arm, and she pressed eagerly into him, a clashing, heated confusion of lips and teeth and tongue, and her knees wobbled and the flesh between her legs throbbed insistently.

"I'm sorry," Draco said again as he pulled away and spun Hermione around roughly, fingers imprinting into her arm as he shoved her down onto his bed on her stomach. Hermione's head was whirling from her sudden, violent change in position and then the bed dipped and Draco's fingers slid down over her bum, at the apex of her thighs, dipping into the hot slickness there. She jumped, not expecting his touch, and then his long fingers found her clit and swirled over it, pinched it lightly and Hermione squeaked and bit her tongue, moaning and arching into his probing fingers, utterly wanton and thoughtless.

And then his touch was abruptly gone, and something – his knee? – nudged between Hermione's thighs and shoved them unceremoniously apart. She pressed her face into the blankets, panting in sharp, shallow breaths, afraid and wanting at the same time. Draco covered her, his skin warm on her back, resting on his elbows with his breath hot on her ear. His – his cock pressed against her slick flesh, almost but not quite pushing into her pussy, and the only sound in the room was their ragged breathing. "Are you…?" Draco asked dazedly, and Hermione knew what he meant and nodded into the bed, swallowing hard. Her stomach was coiled in knots, and her clit was aching and she wanted him _in_ her.

"Yes…" she whispered faintly, fingers clutching handfuls of the blanket, white knuckled with terrified anticipation. For most of her teenage years, Hermione had imagined it would be _Ron_ over her – face to face – on a rose petal-strewn bed, with candles flickering dimly about the luxurious room. She had imagined declarations of love, and hours of touching and snogging before they did the deed. She had imagined that the bed would be made with silk sheets and that they would have elegant crystal glasses of wine, and both be freshly scrubbed from the shower. She had imagined nice lingerie, and gentle, cautious, loving touches.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and let that fantasy go. On Draco's messy bed with a spilt bottle of firewhiskey, him drunk and angry and wanting, and her aching with hurt and visceral arousal. Nothing was like Hermione had imagined. Nothing. Except that she loved Draco, and she wanted this desperately. "Yes," she said again, louder this time, and Draco pushed his hips forward, pressing into the head of his cock into her slick flesh, _inside_ her. It was… Hermione caught her breath and moaned helplessly into the bed as Draco pushed slowly into her, and she could feel tremors running through him, an almost inaudible groan escaping his lips.

He was… It was…

Hermione's fingers clenched harder around her fistfuls of blanket and another moan shivered from her as he slid into her, feeling herself stretch around his cock, hot and slippery. It was like nothing else Hermione had ever felt; not quite hurting, just so _full_, so _much_, almost too much, and her fingers and toes tingled, her pussy clamping and spasming around his cock. "Oh…god," she gasped into the bed and her bum pushed upwards and his cock slipped further in and she mewled and shuddered. So _good_. Draco gasped and thrust hard, and Hermione bit her lip as he pushed himself fully inside her, clumsy and impatient. She squeezed her eyes shut, and barely heard Draco's strangled, "_Fuck_," as he started moving inside her, thrusting into her and sending her body into paroxysms of exquisite pleasure overload.

It was too much, and too hard, and too fast, and Hermione felt like she was going to shatter apart beneath him; she couldn't take the _sensations_. "Oh…god…Draco…_god_." She buried her head into the bed and clamped her teeth around her tongue as Draco fucked her; balancing on his maimed arm's elbow, hand gripping her hip and holding her still while he thrust into her hard, shapeless moans jerked from her mouth with each thrust. And then the _too much_ turned into _more_ and Hermione could hear herself jabbering it into the blankets, muffled and incoherent, "More, please more, more more more…" She wanted to come. Wanted it so bad, and pleasure burgeoned inside her, growing and writhing and seething, and her eyes were squeezed so tightly shut she saw starbursts, mumbling _more_ over and over.

Draco was silent but for his gasps and occasional stifled almost-moans, his body heavy over hers and his fingers were digging hard enough into her hip to leave bruises. It wasn't slow, gentle, tender lovemaking like Hermione had imagined she and Ron would have had if they had ever… It was completely different, and in a way Hermione was glad of that. This was _Draco_. This was _them_, and what they had, and it might not be perfect or loving or guaranteed to end happily, but it wasn't just a pleasant lie. It was the _truth_, and it was rough and intense and jagged, and hurt in a way that Hermione clung to. It was _them_, and she didn't want to ever have to give that up. Oh god, she didn't want to.

She wanted to tell Draco she loved him, as he moved inside her and made her twitch and twist with delicious, hot, pleasure. She held the words inside and her chest ached with the effort not to let them burst out, but she didn't want to risk breaking the moment. Didn't want to ruin what she had. And Draco was moving faster, and his breath was raggedly irregular, and Hermione didn't want it to end yet, she wanted to come too, and as incredible and wrenching and _ohgodsogood_ as it was, she knew she wasn't going to. Not this time. And Hermione didn't know if there would ever _be_ another time. Her back arched and she pressed her hips up into Draco, moaning as he thrust so deep, so deep it _hurt_ in the best way possible, and her eyes fluttered and her toes curled, her heart beating frantic in her chest.

Draco's hips jolted against Hermione's bum, the jut of his hip bones sharp on her soft flesh – he was too thin, she thought blurrily – and the bed squeaked beneath them in counterpoint to the muffled moans he jerked from her mouth with every thrust, and her clit ached to be touched even as waves of ecstasy shuddered through her. Draco was in her to the hilt, and it hurt exquisitely deep inside, and Hermione gasped helplessly into the bed, fingers twitching around her handfuls of blanket, pinned under his body as he moved hard and rough, his breath shiveringly hot on her neck. And then his fingers clamped like iron into the flesh of her hip, and he thrust short and erratic, and his mouth pressed against her shoulder. "Oh…_fuck_," Draco groaned and bit her shoulder, and Hermione felt him come; she felt his cock pulsing and a rush of sudden wetness inside her, and then his movements stilled.

She went limp, like a wrung out rag, fingers uncurling stiffly from around her fistfuls of blanket, filled with the strangest feeling of half-satisfaction. She felt tender and sore and like she couldn't stand anymore, but at the same time, she couldn't help wishing she had gotten to come too. She bit her lip, Draco hot and heavy on top of her, his mouth warm on her shoulder, his fingers releasing her hip, and his heart thudding against her back, so fast. It was over. Over and done, and it was horribly bittersweet, but mostly, Hermione decided, as she gathered her scattered thoughts, mostly bitter. It had been sweet, it had been…overwhelming, but now she was sticky and sore in the aftermath, and expecting to hear Draco spit, _get out_, at her any second now.

He peeled his heated body off her and cool air rushed over her back, wet warmth trickling between her thighs as his cock slid out of her. Hermione stayed sprawled on her face on the bed, with no idea of what she was supposed to do now that it was over. She sat up awkwardly, wrapping an arm around her breasts self-consciously and eyes focused on the tartan pattern of the blanket draped messily over the bed. Hermione felt tender, and her skin was faintly sheened with sweat, her cheeks hot and her hip sore where Draco had held her. She was afraid to look at Draco's face, afraid of what she would see there. Had it been as good for him? Had it meant anything to him? Or had it just been drunken physical pleasure, and she could have been anyone beneath him. Just a warm body.

Hermione cringed away from the thought, goosebumps shivering into life over her body as the cool air wisped over her naked skin. She could hear Draco's bare feet padding over the packed dirt floor; the rustle of clothes, the _snick_ of his zipper as he dressed. She just sat naked on his bed, not wanting to move. The feel of him moving inside her, hard and exquisitely intense, was still crystal clear, and Hermione clutched onto the memory fiercely, refusing to let it go just yet; clinging to the moment and trying to make it last. The way she had felt, and how Draco had been the one making her feel like that. Merlin. It wasn't perfect, but it was precious and important, and it was all that she had.

A bundle of clothes landed unceremoniously in her lap, and Hermione jumped, snapped out of remembrance. She blinked back tears as she sorted through them numbly, dressing while still avoiding looking at Draco. She couldn't decide if she regretted it or not. In the end, Hermione thought she was glad. It wasn't how she had always imagined losing her virginity, but it had been with someone she loved, and it had felt good – ohgodsogood – and those things had to count for something. She zipped up her jersey and raked her fingers painfully through her knotted hair, trying to work up the courage to say something, to break the awful silence – to look Draco in the eye.

"I'm sorry," he said before she could speak, sounding confusingly remorseful, and Hermione lifted her eyes. Draco stood a few feet away, maimed arm hanging by his side, in a long-sleeved black tee shirt and jeans, feet bare, hair swept roughly back off his face, looking…insecure. Uncertain. Hermione frowned slightly. "For what, exactly?" she asked and cringed as the words came out like broken glass. He cleared his throat, shrugging and dropping his eyes to stare at his feet. "Not for – I mean – _fuck_." Draco ran his hand through his hair, meeting her eyes with what seemed like an effort, his voice still slurred by the firewhiskey he'd drunk. "I'm sorry it was like that. Not exactly, um…I'm sure it wasn't what you'd pictured for when you… I shouldn't have…"

"I wanted you to. And I don't care what it was…like." Hermione smiled faintly, fiddling with her jersey zipper. "It was with you, Draco. That's all I wanted." Her cheeks went hot as she admitted, "And it was good, anyway."

Draco bit his lip, grey eyes flashing silvery as he asked without artifice, "It was?"

Hermione nodded, "Very." She took a wobbling step towards him, feeling his cum drying on the insides of her thighs, and Draco didn't back away from her.

"It was _very_ good," she continued, stopping just in front of him, tilting her head back to meet his eyes, and Draco looked away; a stab of hurt lanced through Hermione, her rising hopes brutally crushed by that single, tiny gesture. She lifted her hand out to touch him – she never did know when to give up, she thought idly, and he took a step back, pushing her hand gently away. It was the gentleness that made it hurt so much more, the resigned calm in the way Draco nudged her hand away. "Did it not mean anything, then?" Hermione asked him, and was proud of how even her tone was, how controlled and normal she sounded. Draco sighed. "I – of course it fucking did. Of course. But that doesn't mean that we –"

"Will you think about it?"

"Hermione… Nothing's changed." He sounded tired. Sad.

"_Everything's_ changed! We had –"

"Had sex. I _know_, Hermione. But that doesn't change the fucking future, does it?" Draco glared at her, and Hermione just didn't want to do it – didn't want to argue and yell and fling barbs at each other after what they had done. She didn't want the experience tainted any more than it already was. She wanted to be able to remember it without having to remember the argument afterwards, and the horrible things they had said. She licked her lips, staring up at his sharp jaw and shadowed eyes, the conflicted pain imprinted into his features. Merlin, he was so bloody _stubborn._

"I thought maybe it might change your mind," she said quietly, digging out her wand and running her thumb over the carvings that decorated it. "But I suppose that was silly of me. I'm sorry." Hermione opened the door, lifting the _Muffliato _charm with a flick of her wand, glancing back at him. "And thank you. That was…" She couldn't finish her awkward, stupid thanks. Thanks for _what_; taking her virginity and then not wanting anything to do with her? "Thank you," she repeated anyway, and Draco just looked at her with wounded grey eyes, like it hurt him to hear her thank him as if he'd made her a cup of tea, or done her a small favour. But what else could she say? Try not to die tonight? I love you? Go to hell?

As she turned away, Hermione could see Draco _wanting_ to say something to make her stay, but he _didn't_ – and this time walking away hurt a little less. But only a little.

# # #

_**T-Minus 7 [hours]**_

Hermione stared at herself in the mirror as she dragged a brush through her damp hair, pulling it back and plaiting it tightly in preparation for the mission. She didn't look any different. Still tired and drained, brown eyes looking dulled and lips dry and pale, cheeks flushed from the extremely long, hot shower she'd had. Washing Draco off her skin while she'd cried, except it hadn't worked. She smelt like vanilla instead of firewhiskey, and her skin was clean and pink, but she could still _feel_ him. His hand clamped into her hip, her face jammed into the suffocating blankets, him moving inside her, hard and deep until it ached and throbbed with the most delicious pleasure. She shook herself as the memory made the feelings come back, and took a deep breath.

It hadn't been how Hermione had planned to lose her virginity. It had been impulsive and reckless and completely unromantic. Neither of them had even _thought_ about protection. Luckily she was on the Pill so didn't have to beg a contraceptive potion off Tricia Fideloff – periods were no fun in general, let alone during a war, and the wizarding world had no equivalent to that kind of birth control, so Hermione had stayed on the Pill. The wizarding community were rather old-fashioned in their approach to sex. They had potions to prevent pregnancy, and there were emergency contraceptive Charms that most people learnt in seventh year, but nothing that gave a woman freedom from her period. Ginny had been ecstatic to hear about it, and insisted Harry escort her to a Muggle doctor's to get a prescription. At least in the wizarding world STIs weren't a problem– those were easily sorted out with charms or potions on the rare occasions that was needed.

Hermione sighed, winding a hair-tie around the tail of her braid and smoothing down the little flyaway wisps that fluffed out of the plait, straightened the black long-sleeved tee shirt that went under her Auror armour. They shouldn't have done it. She, at least, should have known better. Draco had been halfway through a bottle of firewhiskey, and couldn't have been expected to think responsibly, but _she_ should have. She pulled her chausses on, adjusting them so they sat nicely around her hips and buckling the belt tight. Her boots were next, and Hermione laced them up with practiced speed, shoving her wand in the holster at her hip, and leaving the rest of the armour on the bed. It was too hot to bother with yet, and besides; she needed help to get it all buckled on properly.

Hermione sat down on the edge of her bed, resting her elbows on her knees and cupping her chin in her hands, staring down at the floor miserably. She wanted to go down to the cellar and _make_ Draco be sensible. She wanted things to be the way they used to be. She felt so helpless, so useless, and she _hated _that feeling. She breathed in and out, head buried in her hands, and told herself that things could still work out. Hermione was nothing, if not optimistic, and determined. If it were humanly possible to convince Draco that they should give their relationship a chance, then Hermione would do it. At least, that was what she told herself.

She didn't want to think about the other option – of living in the same house, and fighting on the same side, and looking at him every day and remembering how it had been, and wasn't anymore. To eat breakfast across the table from Draco, remembering the times when he had held her and kissed her and everything had been right with the universe, and knowing that those times were gone, and she couldn't ever get them back. _That_ possibility painted a very bleak future, and Hermione refused to just give in and let it happen. Unfortunately, she had absolutely no idea _how_ to prevent it from happening. Apparently, sex didn't change Draco's mind, Hermione thought with a bitter twist to her mouth, so what would?

She resented Draco for the way he had stayed so distant and cold after they'd shagged, Hermione admitted to herself. She didn't want to resent him – it wasn't fair to resent him; _she_ had wanted it, _she_ had started it, _she _had bloody well known that it wouldn't change a goddamn thing. But…an obviously stupid and naïve small part of her had been _convinced_ that sex would change things. But in the aftermath all that sleeping with Draco had done was make things hurt more – make them more awkward. Hermione still refused to regret doing it, but she couldn't ignore how foolish it had been. And yeah, she resented him a little.

Hermione shoved herself to her feet and yanked her bedroom door open, going in search of Ginny, and that shoulder to cry on. Ginny wouldn't judge Hermione for sleeping with Draco the way that Harry would, if he knew. Ginny would be supportive, in her own blunt, abrasive sort of way. Although unfortunately, Ginny would probably want to know all the gory details, Hermione thought and blushed flamingly. Wild horses wouldn't drag the details out of her.

# # #

_**T-Minus 3 [hours]**_

"I even forgot to take the bottle of firewhiskey with me!" Hermione wailed suddenly as she remembered it, forgotten on Draco's bed, and Ginny patted her shoulder soothingly.

"Maybe it all spilled, and there's nothing left in the bottle?" Ginny said hopefully. "Unless he's so desperate that he'll suck on the blankets," she continued, a hint of teasing in her voice, and Hermione snorted a half-laugh, half-sob. "His bed will smell like firewhiskey. He'll be furious."

"Oh Hermione, honestly, don't be silly. Malfoy's been walking around stinking like a distillery for days. I bet he wouldn't even notice. And besides," Ginny added, "The only person with any right to be furious right now is you. Merlin, he's an arsehole."

Hermione frowned. For some reason, it didn't feel as satisfying as she thought it would to hear Draco being disparaged. She bit her lip, glancing at Ginny uncertainly. "It's not like that. He – he wasn't _mean_. I mean; he wasn't _nasty_ about it. Not afterwards, anyway." She looked down at her hands, twisted in her lap, picking her uneven, bitten left thumbnail unconsciously with her ragged right thumbnail. "He was just sad. Really sad and tired. God he looked awful. I just wanted to… He doesn't _want_ to hurt me."

"No, but he keeps doing it anyway. And he _knows _he's doing it, and _still_ doesn't stop. He's a git."

"He's afraid," Hermione defended Draco automatically, and Ginny smiled. "You really do have it bad."

Hermione glared at her friend indignantly. "I don't _have it bad_. I love him." Ginny's expression softened, and she wrapped an arm around Hermione's shoulders and squeezed gently. "I know. I just…there's not much you can do about it if he won't change his mind, is there? Maybe – maybe you need to try to let it go…"

Hermione pulled away from Ginny, springing to her feet and giving the younger witch an accusing glare, "_Let it go?_ How can you say that? I just – I just _slept_ with him. I just – I love him. Right now is hardly the best moment for me to try to…_let it go. _Anyway, you can hardly talk, Ginny – when Harry decided you couldn't be together, did _you_ just let it go?"

"Well…no, not exactly. But Malfoy isn't Harry, Hermione. It's an entirely different situation." Ginny gave Hermione an apologetic look, "I just don't want you to keep getting hurt because of him."

Hermione clenched her jaw. "Thank you for your concern, Ginny," she said coolly, voice trembling a little, "But I can't just stop caring about Draco because you think I should. I – I'm going to go."

"Hermione…" Ginny protested, and Hermione shook her head hard, braid swishing back and forth across her back, turning on her heel and making for the door, "Thank you for – for listening, Ginny. I do appreciate that. I think – I think I want to…be alone right now."

She couldn't just let him go. She couldn't.

# # #

_**T-Minus 15 [minutes]**_

"Right. Is everybody ready?" Lupin asked briskly as he hooked a cloak around his shoulders, and Nymphadora dropped a quick kiss on his cheek. Draco stared at his booted feet, left hand resting on his borrowed wand in its holster, rolling his shoulders and breathing slow and deep. He was miserably sober – not all the firewhiskey had spilled from the bottle Hermione had stolen from him, but after they'd fucked, Draco hadn't been able to bring himself to drink it, for some reason. It felt like betraying her, which was stupid because he'd already done that by screwing her and basically telling her to fuck right off straight after. Merlin, he was an arsehole. And instead of hexing him, like he'd deserved, the silly bloody Gryffindor had apologised and then _thanked_ him.

_Thanked_ him. Who the hell did that? Draco had taken her virginity, and told her that there was no way in hell they could be together, and Hermione had thanked him for it. He hadn't even been nice about any of it. He'd been selfish and angry, rough and hard, with no thought for Hermione's pleasure or feelings. He had given in to what he wanted and used her, and _fuck_; in all honesty it had been unbelievable. For _him_, at least. Draco was under no illusions that he had satisfied Hermione in any way, shape or form. If he could do it all over again, he would do it so differently. Draco would start off by _not_ being so angry at Hermione that he shoved her facedown on the bed, so he didn't have to look at her and feel like a horrible bastard for hating her.

Shit, he wanted to do it again. Draco wanted to do it again, and do it right this time. To give Hermione what she should have had this afternoon. He'd ruined it for her; her first time and he'd ruined it, and he couldn't change that, but maybe he could make up for it. And Draco thought of long nights drowning in Hermione's body, hand on her bare, hot skin, mouth on her nipples, and her pussy, making her come, making her moan and wriggle and beg for more. And he told himself that he _couldn't_ do that, that he'd fucked up his only chance, and fuck, that hurt. It was enough to make him question his decision to end things. Today had been like getting a taste of something so _fucking_ delicious, and then taking it away from himself. It seemed so bloody stupid, when he looked at that way.

Maybe Hermione was right. Maybe they should take whatever they could get – that had been his attitude originally, when he had first started being interested in her. But then he'd fallen in love with her, and making the best of the, potentially rather short, time they could have together just hadn't sounded satisfying anymore. He wanted everything, not a fucking _taste._ Not an 'until the war ends', but for as long as it worked. For as long as she was happy and he was happy – without him being dragged off to Azkaban; ripped away from Hermione and sunk into the same lonely, bleak, despair that had sent his father mad.

Draco had made the right decision. He _had_, even if it didn't feel like that. Even if it _felt_ like he'd made an enormous mistake, Draco had to remember that he'd made the right choice. He told himself that today was just an isolated incident, but in the light of the last two _episodes_ in the pantry, he wasn't fooling himself. He couldn't fucking well keep away from her.

"Draco? _Draco_, are you ready?" Lupin's impatient voice cut through the fog of Draco's thoughts, and he looked up to find everyone was staring at him, waiting for him to answer. How long had he been lost in his head? He nodded. "Yes," he answered sharply, hand going to his borrowed wand in its holster, absently wishing for the old familiar feel of _his_ wand, long lost now. "Head in the game, Malfoy," Weasley commented idly, and Draco scowled, but didn't answer. Fuck, he hated how the others looked at him; faces filled with a mixture of worry, doubt, distrust and dislike. All except Hermione's, because Draco refused to look at her, turning his eyes back to the toes of his boots. He didn't want to see the hurt on Hermione's face, and worse, the fucking _love_ that she couldn't hide.

Draco didn't deserve it, and he shouldn't want it.

"Right then," Lupin announced, "Let's go. Johns, Tiptree, Truffle will side-along apparate us all to a location a short distance from the meeting place, as they've been to Ballater before. Be alert. We don't think it's a trap, but we don't know for certain."

Draco fell in behind everyone else, shuffling with the group toward the foyer, the three Aurors picking two people each, and taking them out onto the front porch to disapparate outside the house's anti-apparition wards. Draco leaned against the frame of the doorway into the dining room and ducked his head, waiting for his turn with his heart tight in his chest. His mind turned from Hermione, and a sea of _maybe's _and _want_ _to's _and _can't's_, to the mission ahead. Twenty to thirty werewolves in their human form, and a contact that would only deal if Draco were there to speak to him or her – now _that_ was the bit that interested Draco. He had no idea who it could be. He would have said Blaise, but of course it couldn't be him. A little pang of grief and guilt twinged as Draco thought of Blaise. His first proper kill. He repressed a shudder, eyes on his boots, ignoring everyone around him and hoping they would pay no notice to him.

Everyone else he had known had been pretty dedicated to Voldemort and his cause – and even if they didn't like what Voldemort was doing, they weren't going to speak out against it. They valued their skins too much, just like Draco had. Still did, mostly. Only these days, Draco wouldn't hurt anyone else to stay alive. He sighed, thinking about what the three Aurors had told them all about Ballater earlier in the day, wishing he hadn't been quite so pissed when they'd explained it. He didn't want to die tonight, he thought, blowing out a slow breath and trying to get his head straight. Draco wasn't drunk, but he felt more than a bit hungover, and his head was all fuzzy, and distracted by the insistent memory of sinking into Hermione's slick –

"Come on, then, Malfoy. Hurry yourself up," Tiptree's familiar voice – she was the one who took him to see his mother, wasn't she? Merlin, his mother would be ever so pleased to know he'd broken off things with Hermione, Draco thought disjointedly. He nodded, following after Tiptree onto the porch, her hand clamping around Draco's elbow, bloody Krum on the other side of her. "Ready?" she asked gruffly of Draco and Krum, and Krum nodded. Hermione stood by Johns in her fitted Auror armour that made her look fucking amazing, her face white, mouth pressed into a flat line, fingers curling around the Auror's wrist. She must have felt Draco's eyes on her, because like a magnet was pulling her, she swivelled her head to look at him, wide eyed and lips parting. "Ready," he said, and then everything twisted and compressed around Draco, and the house at Godric's Hollow disappeared with a nauseating _crack_, and he arrived staggering and dizzy on the side of a road in the forested countryside.

Tiptree nodded at Draco and Krum, letting their arms go and spinning on the spot, snapping away again, and Draco shuddered at the thought of apparating so many times in a row. He'd always bloody hated it; could never get used to the sensation. He staggered off into the trees that lined the road, away from the bobbing lights of the others' _lumos_ charms, and hunched over, pressing his balled up fist into his stomach and struggling not to throw up. A hand rubbed firmly over his back and Draco flinched at the touch. "Are you all right?" Hermione asked softly in shadows of the trees, only the crescent-sliver moon and faint _lumos_ charms lighting the deepening dusk. "Draco?" she asked, and he wondered how she could bring herself to talk to him so normally after all that had happened that day.

He couldn't figure out her motives, or intentions, whether she was just asking because she cared, or whether she was actively _trying_ to get him back into bed, so to speak. Draco didn't know what he wanted to do, or how he should respond. And he still felt like vomiting everywhere. "I'm fine," he got out through gritted teeth as he willed his stomach to settle. Her hand disappeared, warmth vanishing, and Draco found himself _craving_ it. Merlin, he was so fucking weak. "Thank you," he added stiffly, not knowing how to even begin navigating the situation they were trapped in; torn between giving in to what they both wanted, and sticking with the course he'd chosen. He straightened and turned to face Hermione, and she whispered a _lumos_ that cast her face in soft blue light, nibbling at her lip, eyes fixed on the ground between them.

Draco followed her gaze down, and saw her hand, outstretched ever so slightly towards him. Damnit. Shit. _Shit._ He wanted to take it so badly. "Please," she whispered, glancing nervously over her shoulder at the cluster of _lumos' _where the others were gathering. Draco could hear someone vomiting, and the Weasley twins cracking jokes, his eyes glued to Hermione's tired, pleading brown stare. He took a deep breath, and before he could think better of it, brushed the backs of his fingers over hers, and then they both twisted their hands and their fingers locked together for the briefest of moments before he pulled his hand away. Draco's heart thudded hard as Hermione smiled hopefully at him, and he said hesitantly, "I'm – I'm thinking about it."

And he was. He could barely think about anything else, and the longer he thought about it, the more his resolve wavered. He couldn't keep away from her – if the last three incidents were any example, at least. He couldn't fucking stop himself; the Malfoy self-control going out the bloody window where Hermione was concerned. But maybe Draco _should_ stop himself. Maybe he should try thinking with his head, instead of his heart – or his dick. He reminded himself harshly that he had ended their relationship for a _reason_. "I'm thinking about it," he said again, just before Lupin waved them all together.

"Johns will take the lead until we get to the meeting point. Stay together, and stay alert. We'll be using disillusionment charms once we get close to the meeting point – try to be inconspicuous as we go through Ballater. It's early enough that the odd Muggle will still be out and about on the streets, and stick together. This _may_ be a trap," Lupin instructed briefly, and then they set off towards the bridge into Ballater. Hermione walked beside Draco, and every time he glanced at her, she was grinning to herself. Draco wanted to tell her that _thinking about it_ didn't mean he was going to make the choice she wanted him to, but that wasn't a conversation Draco wanted to have in front of the others, on a mission.

They crossed the bridge, and Johns led them through the quiet village streets. The occasional car drove past them, slowing as it went by – no doubt staring at the rather unusual group of cloaked individuals. A few families out for their evening walks went past, giving them a wide berth and odd looks, and one rather loud child asked her mother if they were _Jedi_, whatever that meant. Her mother hushed her with a laugh, and Draco frowned at the pigtailed kid as she stared curiously at him, her fingers curled around her mother's. His glare didn't frighten her; she just stuck her tongue out at him, and grinned, and Hermione snickered next to Draco, hand over her mouth to hide her smile.

"Contact said they'd meet us down by the river, at the caravan park. That's it just up ahead," Johns said, and Lupin nodded, looking around for Muggles before calling softly, "Disillusionment charms everyone." In near unison all of them except Johns tapped their wands on the tops of their heads, and vanished from view, leaving only the vaguest people-shaped blurs of what looked like shimmering air where they were. He led the way and Draco followed, moving carefully and glad he was behind everyone else, as hisses of "Watch out!" and "Ouch! That was my heel – be more bloody careful!" wafted on the evening air. A hand found his maimed arm, clutched around the leather of his bracer, and Draco let Hermione cling onto him – somehow it didn't feel like it counted when they were both invisible.

The group of them walked down a lane, past rows and rows of what Draco assumed were caravans – they looked like boxes with wheels, for people to live in. He could hear the sound of voices and music coming from some of them, and outside one, a group of people sat in folding chairs, drinking and smoking, and talking animatedly. He followed Johns off the road a little way, Hermione invisible but warm beside him, the faintest blurs of the others visible warping the air between him and Johns. They ended up a short distance from the caravan park, down by a line of trees that edged the River Dee. "Draco," Johns called over his shoulder, and Draco tugged his arm away from Hermione, and rapped his wand on top of his head.

He made his way to Johns' side, happily not falling over any of the invisible others, and waited with his face impassive, mind and gut inwardly churning. Who the fuck was this contact supposed to be? And where were they? Was it a trap? Draco fidgeted as they waited in silence, feeling sick with nerves. And then a shortish figure in a heavy, hooded cloak melted out of the deepening shadows.

"Show yourself," Johns ordered, and Draco's fingers tightened around his wand, ready to duel if need be. The figure stopped a few feet away, and slim hands came up and pushed back the deep hood. Draco's jaw dropped and a smile spread over his face as he took a step toward their informant. "Pansy?" he asked in disbelief as he stared at her haggard, battered face. "Hello, Draco," she said; same old Pans beneath the bruises that coloured and swelled her features, as pert and perfectly in control as always, "Did you miss me?"

# # #

_Author's Note: _Next chapter will focus on the reappearance of Pansy Parkinson, the mission itself, and priorities will be reassessed :)

So, the big question is: _what did you think of the sex?_ I didn't want their first time to be hearts and flowers and romance (that's just not them, IMO, YMMV), and I wanted it not just to be smut that is outside of/doesn't relate to the story, but to be representative of how they feel about each other, given their fraught situation. And that's what came out. So what did you think of it? Myself, I liked it, but then of course _I_ would, wouldn't I?

The angst between them is starting to fade out now (as you may have been able to tell in the last scene). Draco is starting to lose his taste for playing the martyr, and next chapter things will happen that should trigger the end of the relationship angst :)

Thanks to those who I can't PM: _Sarra, Sam, Aeiou, AC, GlitzAndGlam, Iseult, _and assorted_ Guests _:D


	34. Lycanthropy, Part 3: If I've Got You

_Author's Note: _So…I've been AWOL for a while – haven't even responded to my reviews! – and I apologise for that. I still love you all! I've had some hopeful and exciting news; Mills and Boon are interested in one of my original romances, which of course sent me into a state of excitable frenzy (the first original novel I've ever sent off, and they're interest in it! Eep!), and it utterly ruined my concentration for this story. And real life is always trying to demand my attention, more so lately, which means less time for writing anyway (damn you, husband and children! Why do they not have off switches?) But no worries, I'm getting back into the groove now :)

As always, thank you for your reviews, and I am so, so sorry I haven't acknowledged them! So an extra big _thank you_ to make up for that!

And now, we're finally into 'yay! happy feels chapter!', with a _Trigger Warning_ for discussion of rape. Yeeeah, even my happy chapters are disturbing :/

_Enjoy!_

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_**Lycanthropy, Part 3: If I've Got You**_

Don't believe the things you tell yourself so late at night

And, you are your own worst enemy; you'll never win the fight

Just hold onto me, I'll hold onto you

It's you and me up against the world; it's you and me

[Parachute, Ingrid Michaelson]

_**Mission Elapsed Time**_

_**+00:00:37**_

Draco sat with Pansy under a gnarled old tree by the riverside, a short distance from the Order, his _Lumos _lighting them both. He could feel the others watching him and Pansy – could feel _Hermione _watching him and Pansy. A smile played at his lips. Hermione jealous. Draco rather liked it – not that Hermione had anything to be jealous about. He and Pansy had never been anything, not really. Just friends who…indulged from time to time – although it was true that for a while Pansy _had _been trying to woo him into marriage, that hadn't been because they loved each other or anything so sweet; just because he was a better match than most of the other pureblood wizards close to Pansy's age. No, they were just friends, when it came right down to it.

And now here she was, beaten and half-starved, shivering inside her stained, torn woollen cloak – something she wouldn't have been caught within thirty feet of, several months ago, let alone huddled inside its rather pungent folds. Pansy had told the Order how many werewolves there were – thirty-two – and where they were – an old house just outside town, on the opposite side to the caravan park. She had also told them, with her chin held up high – good old Pans, proud and snobbish to the last - that she herself had been bitten by Greyback. Pansy Parkinson was a werewolf now; it was difficult for Draco to wrap his head around. She hadn't changed yet – Greyback had bitten her on the last full moon – and she didn't want to have that experience, apparently.

Draco wasn't surprised; he couldn't imagine Pansy would ever be pleased at the thought of turning into a snarling, ferocious, oversized dog. He wondered how Pansy – or her family in general – had fallen so far in favour, that Greyback had been allowed to turn her against her will.

Draco sighed, staring across the River Dee, back resting against the nubbly tree trunk, legs stretched out in front of him, balancing his booted right heel on top of his left boot's steel cap toe, wand in his left hand – only hand. He noticed Pansy stealing glances at his stump now and then, and he felt self-conscious, wanting to hide it away in the folds of his cloak. The Order didn't even seem to notice it anymore, but Pansy had only seen Draco a few times after he'd lost his hand, and the wound had still been swaddled in dirty, bloodstained bandages at the time.

They sat close enough that their elbows rubbed together when she brushed her dirty hair off her face, answering Draco's sigh with a soft one of her own. He wondered if she knew he'd killed Blaise, and felt squirming guilt when he thought about it, picturing Pansy's horrified reaction if she didn't know. Well, Draco certainly wasn't going to bring it up. "Your hand – I mean, your, er," Pansy waved at Draco's stump, finally openly acknowledging it. Draco wondered if she'd been building up the courage to mention it this whole time. Quite likely. It made people uncomfortable. He smiled with superior amusement, "Yes? My what?"

She frowned at him, elbowed him sharply in the side. "Stop being a git, Draco," she ordered, with a tired smile, and then waved her hand at his stump again. "Your _injury_. I never said I was sorry."

"People always seem to want to say sorry, for something they didn't have anything to do with. The only person who needs to apologise is my father," Draco said darkly, staring over the river, unable to see the other side as night fell completely. He saw in his peripheral vision, Pansy glance up at him, an oddly uncertain expression on her dirt smudged, bruised face. "Would you accept his apology?" she asked with a twisted, bitter little smirk on her face. Draco shrugged. "Maybe. Perhaps if he let me cut _his_ hand off, I might call it even."

"You're getting soft, Draco," Pansy commented wickedly, and Draco chuckled. "She –" _shit! _"They're rather bad influences; the Order. Must be rubbing off on me," Draco tried to cover smoothly, and Pansy wasn't fooled a bit. "I noticed you kept looking at the Granger girl. I wasn't sure if it was love or loathing."

"Oh, definitely loathing, Pans. Hate the little bitch," he said casually.

"Liar," Pansy accused, and Draco sighed and glanced sideways at her – she was grinning at him smugly, and he grinned back, before his eyes were drawn along to Hermione. She sat tailor-fashion on the riverbank with Potter and Weasley, wand balanced on her knee and illuminating her hands as she plucked blades of grass and shredded them. She was chatting to the other two, although her eyes kept flicking over to Draco and Pansy, and as Draco watched Hermione laughed at something Weasley said, and shoved him playfully.

"Yeah. _Definitely_ loathing. Can't stand the sight of her," Draco said lazily, happiness bubbling up in his chest at the thought of having Pansy back. A friend – no, an _ally_. She'd always been a pretty good ally, unless it was a choice between saving herself or someone else. Pansy would _never_ sacrifice herself for her allies, or her friends. But it was almost like old times, sitting with Pans and staring at the Golden Trio, talking about them; except that now everything was turned upside-down.

"She's a mudblood, Draco," Pansy said seriously, but without much censure in her voice; she was smart enough to realise that blood didn't mean much anymore, not now she was flinging herself on the Order's mercy.

"Doesn't matter if she's _Muggleborn_," he emphasised the word; these days mudblood sounded wrong. Discordant. "We're not together, anyway."

"But that's _not_ loathing in your eyes, Draco, darling. And she's looking over here with the exact same sickly longing you have on your face right now." Pansy raised an eyebrow, and Draco let his head fall back against the tree trunk, staring up at the brightening stars through the tree branches. They wouldn't be moving out for a while yet. Midnight, Lupin had said, after he, Shacklebolt, and the three Aurors had consulted with Pansy about the werewolves' activities. "Swear to me that you won't mention it to anyone but me, Pans. On your honour."

"I'm a defector. Do I _have_ any honour left?"

"Of course you do. And you have to promise, or I won't tell you."

She could never resist the possibility of hearing juicy secrets, so she promised, bruised and split lips grinning at Draco as she waited eagerly for him to spill the details. Pansy wasn't going to hear everything she wanted to; Draco had no desire to pore over all the painful minutiae.

"We were…involved." Draco began, stiff and stilted, pausing and chewing on his lip thoughtfully, watching Hermione lean her head on Potter's shoulder, her face turned towards Draco. Their eyes met and she smiled hesitantly, and Draco returned the tentative expression before he could stop himself. Pansy was watching him with interest, and he shook himself, continued, "And then I realised that I'd stupidly forgotten that if we – this side – wins the war, I'll be up on trial, and packed off to Azkaban. And I didn't particularly long to indulge in a doomed relationship, so I ended things. Except…"

"Except it's not quite as neat and tidy as that," Pansy ended. "You can't just snip through he threads of your feelings and forget about them. Especially not when Granger's looking at you like _that_. I'm surprised you've resisted running back to her, Draco."

He blushed, and Pansy pounced. "You _have_ run back to her! No, wait – you said you _were _in a – you're shagging her! Aren't you? Using the mudblood for sexual favours!" She laughed delightedly and Draco swore under his breath, scowling. She made it sound so _sordid_, and it…it…it kind of was. "It's not like that, Pans. I – I'm not using her. It was an accident."

"Right, so you're not planning how exactly to do it again?"

"Shit, Pans." He kind of was. But not like that, not really. Draco ducked his head, staring at his _Lumos_. "I'm thinking about –"

"I knew it!" she crowed, and he frowned at her interruption. "Thinking about…getting back together with her," he finished. It was weird, talking to Pansy about things like _getting back together_ with Hermione. He had talked to Pansy about Hermione before, back at school, but never in even vaguely complimentary terms. Pansy shot him a sympathetic look. "You really do like her," she wondered disbelievingly. "I didn't think it was possible for you to genuinely care about anyone except yourself. And your mother."

Draco winced slightly, and Pansy canted her head to the side, "Fallen out with mummy-dearest, have you?"

"Shut up, Pans."

"Didn't appreciate being taken away from her _darling_ Lucius?"

"No, no she didn't," Draco snapped sharply, the wound of his mother's betrayals still raw. Pansy could unerringly find someone's weak points, and when she did, she dug her claws in, whether you were friend or not. "So, why did you defect, Pans?" he asked pointedly, trying to divert her, and almost regretting it when her face fell and crumpled. "I mean, I know it was the – the werewolf issue. But…how did it happen?" he continued a little more gently. "Your parents aren't Death Eaters, and you were just another recruit when you joined – not anyone important enough for You-know-who to want to punish." He remembered his own punishment, and he shuddered, his stump throbbed with the memory.

Pansy gave him a _look_, and Draco rolled his eyes. Even when being important was a bad thing, Pansy still wanted to be the centre of attention. "You _weren't_, Pansy. So, what happened? How did you get…given to Greyback?" Merlin, that sounded awful, but there was no other way to put it. She stared at her hands, folded in her lap, and shrugged. "I didn't. The _bastard's_ just been getting more and more out of control, and when the Dark Lord went to Europe, no one was safe anymore. And I –" Her voice broke, "I didn't have anyone to protect me." She sniffled, big fat tears rolling down her grubby cheeks.

Draco let out a short breath and wedged his wand between his knees, wrapping his arm around Pansy's shoulders. She immediately leant into him, seeking the warmth of his comfort without any show of pride, crying quietly. "I tried to keep away from him. But then…I guess I caught his eye, and last full moon, well…I suppose I should be glad he didn't kill me, but," she twisted her head and looked up at Draco, her eyes wet and filled with an impotent anger that was uncomfortable in its ferocity, "But I'm not."

Draco remembered all too well what it had been like living in the Manor with no one to turn to for help, or protection. Even his mother hadn't… He thought perhaps he should be angry at Pansy; at the end, when Voldemort had begun using Draco as a little torture toy, she and everyone else had melted away. Like they had never been friends. Shunned him, avoided even looking at him, if they had to be near him. But he couldn't find it in him to be angry; he would have done the same thing back then. No one risked Voldemort's wrath; and it wouldn't have saved him anyway. But someone _could_ have saved Pansy from Greyback.

"I'm sorry, Pansy," he said inadequately, "Maybe – maybe you can kill the bastard tonight. It won't change things, but it might…make you feel better."

"Yeah," she agreed dully, stemming her tears, wiping her face and sitting back up, letting out a long, shaky breath. "But that's not really why I defected."

Draco gave Pansy a questioning look, and she drew breath, pressed her lips tightly together, and flipped her heavy cloak open. "This."

Draco cocked an eyebrow, confused, "Well, I knew you liked fashion, Pans, but I didn't think you liked it so much that you'd –"

"I'm pregnant, you dolt!" she hissed and twisted awkwardly so that she could smack him across the back of the head. Draco winced and clutched his head, as she continued on with indignation saturating her voice, "What, did you just think I was _fat?_"

Draco ignored her annoyed ranting, staring horrified at the slight bulge of her abdomen. Pregnant. Fuck. At least he knew it wasn't his. Merlin, that would be all he bloody needed. But Pansy, pregnant…shit, that was unexpected. She wasn't exactly the most maternal type. "So…you don't want to raise your child on the other side, then?" he ventured cautiously; he couldn't imagine Pansy wanting to bring a child into the hateful, dangerous evil of the Death Eaters, even if she _hadn't_ been bitten.

"No," she said, eyes glittering and face turning terribly hard. "No, I want it _out_." Draco shrank from the vehemence in Pansy's voice, the sickened hatred on her features. His stomach churned. "Oh. Oh, fuck, Pans…I'm so fucking sorry." Draco's heart wrenched with empathy as he realised what had happened. The bastards. The fucking _bastards._ That they could let that happen to one of their own – Muggles and Muggleborns he could at least _understand_ them justifying, in their own sick way, but to do it to one of their own? It was just senseless evil; cruelty for the fucking fun of it, no doubt.

"I want it _out_. I _hate_ it. Hate everything it represents… He couldn't just take my body away from me while he used it; he had to turn me into a _fucking _broodmare. It's – it's not even my body, anymore. It's h-h-_his_ and I'm just a _prisoner_ in it!" Her voice rose to a breathy, tearful shriek, wrenching the words out of her like they hurt, her slim hands clenched into fists. Draco felt cold and numb, staring at Pansy helplessly; his first friend, his first kiss, and his first…well, pretty much his first _everything_, except for what he'd done today with Hermione. He'd never _loved_ Pansy, but he'd always cared. She might be an irritating bitch sometimes – a lot of the time, he amended – but she didn't deserve that. No one did.

"Who – who was it?" Draco choked out without thinking, fumbling for Pansy's hand by the light of the crescent moon and his dim _Lumos_. Her fingers curled around his, cold and firm, and she ducked her head, avoiding his probing stare. She was silent for a moment, and then, "It – it doesn't matter," she said, her voice a dead thing. Pansy drew breath, still avoiding Draco's eyes, her cheeks flushing blotchy pink – with anger or shame or…Draco didn't know, but he wished he could fix it. He gripped her cold, clammy hand tighter, as she went on, "They're all the same, in the end. Every last damned one of them. Blood purity? There's nothing pure about _any_ of us." She said the last fiercely, and her hand squeezed around Draco's fingers so tight that they ground together painfully.

Draco didn't know what to say to make it better.

He _couldn't_ make it better.

"We'll take the pack out, and take you back home. The Healers can…sort things out." Draco flushed, immensely uncomfortable, and so, so sorry for Pansy. "And things will get…better. You'll like it, I think. It's home, and well…at any rate, it's better than where you were." Pansy made a soft sound that could have been a teary laugh, or a stifled sob, and wriggled closer to Draco. He wrapped his arms around her again; the feel of a Pansy half in his lap familiar, even after so long. She sat snugged up against Draco's side on the cold, wet grass, her head resting on his chest, his good arm around her back and his maimed one around her waist, sandwiching her tightly. He tried not to think about what was inside her, beneath his forearm – the reminder of her violation, her fucking _rape_, or rapes plural, more likely.

Draco felt sick for her, sick and furious. And he couldn't help wondering who it had been. Crabbe Senior? Goyle Senior? Those two stupid bastards were known for inflicting _that_ on prisoners. That nasty fucker, Avery? Greyback? Speculating made Draco feel uncomfortable – _uneasy _– so he tried to think about something else.

Pansy saved him, observing quietly, "You called it home." Draco blinked and refocused, and realised that she was right. What a strange thought; that his home was with the Order now. With Potter and Weasley and all their little friends. And Hermione. His home was with Hermione. Fuck, he couldn't get away from that; Draco was rapidly losing the battle to not be with Hermione.

"It's the closest I've got, right now. With You-know-who squatting in the fucking Manor, I've got nowhere else to call home," Draco said dismissively, downplaying the disconcerting feeling of _belonging _he had developed. He was still the odd one out – not one of the inner circle, not exactly liked – but they had accepted him, given him a place on the fringes of the group. And he rather liked it there, on the edge. Pansy hummed uncertainly, obviously not believing his flippancy was genuine, but she didn't say anything. Draco's eyes drifted to Hermione, barely visible in the darkness. She sat with Potter and Weasley still, a seated silhouette on the grass, and her posture seemed stiff. Glanced his way and then whipped her head away, shoulders hunching up a little. Draco frowned, wondering what was wrong, and then Pansy sighed and nuzzled closer into Draco's chest, her muscles relaxing as his warmth soaked into her, and Draco realised.

Shit. Hermione thought that he and Pansy were…Oh _fuck_. He sighed. Lately it seemed he never could catch a fucking break.

# # #

Hermione wanted to pee. She always wanted to pee when they were creeping up outside a Death Eater residence, with her heart in her throat and wand tight in her clammy hand. Even if she'd just gone. It was like magic, she thought, and snorted to herself. The house they were approaching was secluded down a long, treed driveway, and they were approaching down the side. Draco was behind her, Pansy Parkinson with him. She grimaced. Parkinson. The girl had always been absolutely horrible to her, but she couldn't hold a grudge, not now; seeing her enemy battered and diminished was just sad. Hermione still didn't like Pansy, but Merlin, she felt sorry for her. She couldn't imagine what it must be like to be turned into a werewolf, and to know that you had no control over your body whenever the full moon was up – unless you took potions to prevent it, and even then… God, it must be awful, Hermione thought, and shivered.

She crept along behind Harry, trying to step quietly on the grass beside the winding drive, terrified, adrenaline pumping through her veins and making her muscles wind tight and her breath come shallow and quick. At first Hermione had thought that…well, Draco had gone off with Pansy after they'd finished questioning her, and he'd sat wither under a tree by the river, out of Hermione's hearing. She'd tried to ignore them, but her gaze kept being drawn back to Draco; and then she'd looked over and seen them in the light of Draco's _Lumos_, Pansy half in Draco's lap, and his arms wrapped around her. Jealousy had scorched through Hermione, and she had wanted to march over and _rip_ Pansy bodily out of Draco's arms.

It reminded her of when Ron had kissed Lavender; god, she had been furious with Ron that night. Just remembering how she had felt then made her want to thump him, even now, years later. But Hermione was older now, and at least marginally more sensible, so she'd told herself not to jump to conclusions and sat with Harry and Ron trying to make light conversation; made more difficult because they were all nervous about the mission. She had chatted with the boys, and acted normally, but inside, Hermione had still been jealous. She didn't like that feeling very much; it made her feel small and petty and helpless.

Draco had pulled Hermione aside on the long walk to Greyback's lair of a house, grabbed her by the elbow and steered her off the side of the road. Bent his head to her ear, and whispered, "Pansy's just a friend. Don't get your knickers in a twist, Granger." Hermione had punched him in the arm – lightly – for mocking her, but for the next ten minutes she had grinned like an idiot as she'd plodded along with the others. Draco was different tonight. He wasn't reflexively pushing her away; and although Hermione knew not to get her hopes up too much, lest he retreat back into his shell, he seemed to have stopped trying to deny his feelings. It was about bloody time.

They rounded a curve in the drive, and Hermione finally caught sight of the house; a large two story structure. Modern, and probably terribly expensive, the windows dark and blank, like blind eyes staring out at her, and she shuddered at the thought. Pansy had told them that the 'wolves would be asleep by midnight tonight – they'd been out _carousing_ in their human shapes last night, apparently. Greyback and eleven others slept upstairs – Greyback in the master bedroom, with three girls, and the eight men shared the other three bedrooms. The rest of the 'wolves slept downstairs, in the two bedrooms, study and lounge. There was a Caterwauling Charm set about the house's perimeter, so no way to sneak up on them, but Pansy had sketched the house's layout. They hoped that if they went in fast, they could at least subdue the ground floor before Greyback and the others that slept upstairs joined the fight.

Hermione squared her shoulders as they approached the boundary of the Caterwauling Charm, trying to keep her breathing even and slow, her lungs so _tight_ and it felt like she couldn't breathe at all, every muscle tensed until she felt like an overwound clockwork toy, the crackling of her feet on dead leaves horrendously loud to her ears. Lupin paused and looked at each and every one of them, getting nods in response. Hermione felt her own head bob on her shoulders, and it felt heavy, her movements jerky. What if she got bitten? She wouldn't turn into a werewolf, but…it wouldn't be pretty. She was terrified of being bitten.

Draco stepped up beside her, Pansy clinging to his side as they all formed a ragged, bunched line along the invisible boundary of the Caterwauling Charm. He smiled at Hermione, trying to be reassuring she assumed, but his lips were tight and his grey eyes cold and hard, and she wasn't reassured. She smiled back though, weak and quavering, and shifted her grip on her wand, trying to will her heartbeat to slow, trying to control the rush of adrenaline making her tremble and her muscles sing with unreleased energy. And then Lupin ran forward and a wailing split Hermione's head in two, driving into her ears, surrounding her in a crush of oppressive sound.

She stumbled to a belated run after Lupin, bunched in with the others; Harry's black head bobbing to the left ahead of her, Kingsley beside him, Krum, and Mr Weasley, and Fred and George… All of them, running, and Hermione's body obediently did so too, although her mind felt blank with terror. _I don't want to be bitten_. Lupin flourished his wand and the tall hardwood front door exploded in a mass of splinters and dust, Lupin lowering his head and charging through, Hermione and the others on his heels.

It was dark except for their bobbing _Lumos',_ and all Hermione could make out was figures in the gloom, the impressions of furniture scattered about, and then the first crack of a spell seared the air. It came from beside her, the flash of orange splitting the air and lighting the room for a second, and Hermione knew it was Draco, and turned her head and saw it was Pansy, teeth bared and eyes so wide the whites showed all the way around. She shook herself from her shock and turned her face to the battle beginning around her, sparking a cutting hex from her own wand at someone popping up from behind a couch.

The light of the _Lumos _charms disappeared as people began duelling in earnest, and they were left in the dark, only the spells they shot lighting the room, like a Muggle strobe light, only multicoloured. It almost looked pretty, Hermione thought absently, as she ducked a hex and sent back a _Stupefy _with a flick of her wand. Everything seemed to be going very slowly, except for her heart, which raced in her chest, whirring and thudding, faster and faster until she thought she was going to explode. At least the Caterwauling Charm had stopped its incessant, deafening wails, and the only sounds were yells and screams, and shouted spells and the crack of the spells themselves.

A third of the Order team had peeled off towards the bedrooms on the ground floor as soon as they had gotten inside, and another third was going to try to hold the stairs for as long as possible, which left Hermione and seven others battling what she counted as around ten 'wolves. Almost evenly matched, for once. They could do this.

She cast a protego as sickly yellow light shot toward, and then whipped back a _Repulso_ and one of the 'wolves went flying across the room, hitting the wall with a crunch and a puff of plaster. Her heart was still going mad, but her wand hand was steady and her head was oh-so-calm, and Hermione thought perhaps she was starting to get the hang of duelling, and the chaos of battle. She was detached, calm, very Zen. Everything was under control, Hermione decided with the blank calm of someone suffering from shock, as she whipped her wand around, mechanically sending spells darting at the 'wolves.

And then Pansy Parkinson hit her hard and they fell to the ground in a tumble of limbs and cloaks, Hermione struggling, thrashing, thinking only, _she lied the bitch lied she's not on our side it's a trap!_ And then Pansy was hissing, "Stop it, stop it, you stupid fucking mudblood," and trying to scramble _off _Hermione, and she realised that the other witch must have been knocking her out of the way of an Avada or something. Her head ached where Pansy's had knocked against it, and her bum throbbed from hitting the floor so hard, and Hermione ignored that to cast a shielding charm, just in time for a purple spell to splat against it, right in front of Pansy's head.

They blinked at each other, and then Pansy got to a crouch and held her hand out to Hermione, and Hermione only hesitated for a second. The other's hand was hot and sweaty, and her grip was like iron, and Hermione wondered if Pansy had always been this strong, or if becoming a werewolf had increased the other's strength. Pansy dragged them both to their feet with her wand aimed at the enemy, flicking her wrist as she sent hexes sparking from the end.

"Thanks," Hermione panted, and Pansy just breathlessly said, "Whatever, mudblood," and edged around the room toward the kitchen, to take cover no doubt. Hermione backed up and took cover herself, beside George who had tipped a large coffee table on its side. Hermione's body kept the right spells spitting from her wand, ducking and shielding on automatic, feeling strangely distant from the whole scene. This was life. Fighting for it. The 'wolves were mostly young, anyway, and relatively unskilled in duelling; transformed they might be a struggle, but right now it was horribly easy to take them out. One of Hermione's _Sectumsempra_ sent one teenage girl crashing to the ground, and a boy ran to her side, ignoring the battle around him and Hermione's heart wrenched. He slipped in the girl's blood as it pooled around her body, like some horrific pratfall joke, falling next to her, face to face, and Hermione could see the anguish twisting his mouth into a silent rictus of a scream.

These were people. People who, like Pansy, probably didn't have a choice in being turned into ravening beasts under Greyback's brutal rule. People who loved each other, and who didn't want to die. The boy struggled onto his hands and knees, and lifted a hand to the girl's face, patting her cheek with small, urgent motions, stroking it as he spoke desperate and pleading, his wand forgotten on the floor at his side. Hermione watched from her relative safety behind the heavy wood coffee table as the boy sobbed over his dying…what? Girlfriend? Sister? Friend? And then Draco stepped into her field of vision, wand held out and white-blond head stark in the flashing lights. He was tall and lean and glorious in his archaic Auror leathers, blood spattered like a knife blade and just as sharp and merciless. Hermione stared at him, any thought of her defence or offence obliterated from her mind as Draco looked down on the weeping boy clutching desperately at the blood-soaked girl, and said,

"_Avada Kedavra_."

Hermione flinched as the green light hit point blank and the boy slumped limp over the body of the dead girl he had obviously loved. She looked away, tears standing in her eyes and chest aching with horror and grief. She couldn't stand it. The boy had been defenceless. And without a single pause, without the slightest hesitation, Draco had coolly summoned up the resolve and hatred needed for the Killing Curse. She sank her teeth into her tongue and tried to use the pain to focus her, to stop her from falling into hysterical tears behind the coffee table. Draco had killed the boy, his face as pale and cold as marble, the _Avada_ uttered with low vehemence, in a voice that betrayed no doubt, no horror, just distaste. But then that was him, wasn't it?

The other side of Draco; that Malfoy pureblood arrogance and coldness that Hermione had seen too much of lately. The determination to do what he thought needed to be done, no matter how unpleasant he found doing it.

She shuddered and felt suddenly icy cold and like she wanted to vomit in her lap, and then George elbowed her and shouted, "Give 's a bloody hand, Hermione! I'm dying here!"

She shot him a startled, frightened glance, automatically looking for injuries and he grinned at her, teeth white in the dim light, and yelled that he was _fine_, that it was just an _expression_, and Hermione felt like thumping him for scaring her. She was fighting again, trying to push back the horrible nausea seeing Draco coldly execute someone evoked in her, trying to ignore the nausea her _own_ killing created. She tried to _Stupefy_ or otherwise disable the 'wolves, but it was hard and she was scared and didn't want to die, and ethics went out the window in favour of survival.

"_Retreat!_ Out! Get _out!_" Kingsley was roaring as he and the others who had split off to cover the stairs and take the bedrooms ran into the lounge, sending spells behind them, and Hermione realised Greyback and the others must have finally pushed past the suppressing fire they'd attempted to create at the stairs. "_Get out!_" Kingsley boomed again, and Hermione stumble-scrambled for the door, George behind her, shoving at her, and then making it past her, grabbing her elbow and dragging her with him. She didn't think about anything but getting toward that ragged hole in the side of the house where the door had been before Lupin had disintegrated it. They burst out of the house, George still half-dragging Hermione along with him. His legs were longer, she thought disjointedly, it wasn't fair, of _course_ she was having trouble keeping up, his legs were so much longer.

The grass was a dark wet blanket, and the trees were black silhouettes beyond the expansive lawn, and Hermione's breath burnt in her lungs as she crossed the lawn towards them. She shook George off, pumping her arms and legs in rhythm, sprinting with all her strength. They'd taken out all but two of the 'wolves in the lounge, so assuming the others had taken out all of those in the bottom floor bedrooms, that only left twelve or so. She thought that seemed like a manageable number. They just needed to regroup, in the trees where there was more substantial cover than furniture, more room, less likelihood of being caught in friendly fire. Her brain raced as her feet pounded thumpingly on the wet lawn, the tree line growing quickly closer. There were others besides George beside her, and more behind her, and she hoped desperately that no one had gotten left behind.

Hermione crashed with arms outstretched into a tree, the bark rough on her face and hands as she used it to break her headlong rush, sliding around it with fingers scrabbling at the bark to stop her from sling-shotting madly away from it. The jagged bark scraped her fingertips painfully, leathers making a rasping, slithering sound as she swung around the tree trunk. And then she was peering from behind the wide trunk, wand up and ready, except there were still people in the way, getting between her and the 'wolves. "Hurry up!" she screamed, jittering with impatience as what, in the dark, looked like Harry, Draco, two of Krum's friends, and Pansy Parkinson dashed across the lawn.

And then Pansy tripped and fell. She sprawled face first on the wet grass, and Hermione _damned_ Pansy to the depths of bloody hell as the witch cried out, "Draco! _Draco!_" in a voice filled with terror. Hermione's heart stopped as Draco back-pedalled at the sound of his name screamed frantic and thin on the night air and ran back to the witch's side. He yanked Pansy to her feet; her hand clamped in his and his wand in his _damned _teeth where he couldn't bloody use it. Hermione wanted to _murder _him for that. Pansy wasn't worth Draco risking his life; she thought and part of her was shocked by the apparent cold-bloodedness of her mind. But it was true and she wouldn't deny it.

"Hurry up, hurry up," Hermione whispered, fists clenched, a _Repulso_ on the tip of her tongue, just waiting for Draco and Pansy to clear the lawn. They were right in the bloody way from Hermione's angle, although the Order members who were further to either side of Hermione had already started flinging hexes and curses. The 'wolves, led by Greyback, were pouring out of the hole where the front door used to be and across the lawn, and Greyback was howling and snarling, the twisted half-animal sound sending shivers down Hermione's spine. Draco was pulling Pansy along behind him, the witch only managing a stumbling half-run. Draco kept glancing back over his shoulder at the witch, wand still clenched in his teeth, and Hermione could hear him yelling something inaudible at Pansy over Greyback's howls.

And then Greyback roared and Hermione saw a flash of red light up the expanse of lawn, and her heart stopped as Draco, glancing back at Pansy, saw it. "Pans!" Hermione heard Draco yell as he dug his heels in to halt his desperate attempts to drag Pansy into a mad sprint, flinging out his arm, his momentum swinging Pansy away from him to tumble safely into the wet dark. And Hermione knew what was going to happen and a strangled sob burst past her lips, and her body was rooted to the ground as she watched, helpless. The curse struck just as Draco steadied himself, turned around by the momentum of getting Pansy safely out of the way, leaving him completely vulnerable, standing facing Greyback and the rest of the 'wolves.

The red light hit Draco's throat, and Hermione watched as his head jerked viciously back and up, and he took a stumbling step backward. _No._ His hand flailed for a second, grabbing at his wand and ripping it from his mouth, stretching it out at Greyback. And then Draco swayed and fell back, hitting the ground with a muted thud, and Hermione saw a weak spatter of dark liquid spray from his throat. _No._ His hand dropped to the grass, wand falling from twitching fingers, and Hermione was running before she realised it. Her breath was loud and rasping in her ears, all other sound fading and falling away as she ran blindly across the expanse of lawn toward him.

She thought of carotid arteries, of the amount of blood in the human body, and how much it could lose before a blood-replenishing potion was useless. She thought of what was in her belt pouch – essence of dittany and that wasn't going to be enough for an artery. Not for a wide-open gash pumping out blood in time with his heartbeats. He was going to die. Draco was going to bleed out in front of her, and – and he'd probably be happy because at least he wouldn't have to go to Azkaban. Hermione hated him at that moment, feet eating up the ground between her and him, fingers fumbling at her belt pouch, because even if dittany wouldn't fix it altogether, it might help, it couldn't hurt.

She hated him for being so stubborn. For playing the martyr. She hated him for saving bloody Pansy Parkinson. What good was _Pansy_ to Hermione? She didn't want _Pansy_, she wanted Draco, and how dare he die for _fucking_ Pansy Parkinson? How _dare_ he. _Damn him to hell!_ They hadn't even gotten a _chance_. Hadn't – hadn't even…it wasn't _fair_. It wasn't bloody fair and if he died then Hermione was going to murder Pansy. She was really, truly going to murder her.

He couldn't die. He couldn't fucking die. It wasn't fair. It wasn't _fair_.

She was nearly to him, spells flying above her head and past her, which she didn't even see. All she could see was Draco, lying on his back staring up at the stars, his hand clutched trembling and weak to his throat, blood bubbling so thick, so _fast_ between his fingers. Hermione slid in a tumble to her knees beside him, dittany in her shaking fingers, dropping her wand and ripping his hand away from his throat, sprinkling the potion frantically onto the gaping wound opened across his throat. Oh god, it was so awful. She wanted to vomit and scream and cry, but instead she dropped the useless dittany that had barely made a Merlin-damned difference, and clamped her hand over the grotesque gash.

"Help me! _Help me!_" she screamed, shaking like a leaf, heart a staccato drumbeat in her chest as his blood seeped and ran hot and horrible between her fingers. "_Somebody help me!_"

Why didn't she know more healing magic? She should know more healing magic. She should _know_ it. Hermione hated herself. How could she let him die like this? Draco's eyes turned from the stars to hers, and Hermione sobbed roughly past the lump in her throat, and brushed his hair back from his forehead with her free hand. "You'll be all right. I promise, you'll be all right," she lied, staring into his grey eyes and waiting, waiting to see them flutter shut, or glaze over with that dullness of death. His blood was running sticky and too fast over her fingers and hand, and Hermione was afraid to press any harder in case she choked him. In desperation she fumbled for her discarded dittany and shook more over her fingers, letting it trickle between them onto his wound, but it still made little difference.

What if the wound was cursed? What if they couldn't stop the bleeding? Why wasn't anyone coming? Where were they? He was _dying_ here, and she didn't have a portkey to a Healer's location, just back to Godric's and Fideloff wasn't there tonight. She wasn't fucking _there_, because she was visiting her goddamn sister, and Draco was going to die because Hermione had forgotten a portkey and Fideloff had a stupid fucking sister.

"Help me, please!" Hermione screamed again, terrified by the blood. So much blood. How could he still be alive?

"Don't die."

The world was her hand on his throat, and his eyes, grey and confused and sad. Too sad. Like he knew he was… Tears dripped onto Hermione's hand, splish-splashing into the blood.

"Don't you _dare_ die. Please. Don't die," she begged him, "Please don't die, Draco. I need you. I – I _love_ you. Draco, please –"

And then her words choked off as hands shoved her roughly out of the way, forcing her aside, peeling her hand from his throat and Hermione fell back on her bum, weeping like a child, her mind frantic and blurred. She only thought of him. Getting back to him. If he… She wanted to be there, for Draco to see her, to know that she loved him. That… Hermione scrambled to her hands and knees, tears streaming down her face as she knelt beside Draco's head, out of Lupin's way as he tried to stem the bleeding. Hermione's blood-gloved hand went to Draco's face, leaving stark crimson smears over his pale cheek. So pale – a deathly white, and clammy and cold beneath her hot, sticky fingers as she stroked his cheek and forehead, like she was trying to memorise him. He stared up at her, eyes glazed and unfocused on her face as she hovered over him beside Lupin.

"Please, Draco. I love you so much, I can't lose you – can't lose you. Not now. Not – not like this. Please. _Please?_" she begged him as she stroked the line of his cheekbone with jerky, trembling motions, eyes flicking between his eyes and his wound, and god, the _blood_. Lupin's hands were drenched with it, as he whispered a soft, musical thrum of words under his breath.

Draco's lips moved, and she heard the faintest, gurgling, "Love…" and then he grimaced with pain and fell silent, still staring up at her, blinking as he tried to focus, frustration furrowing his dark brows. His hand wavered up toward Hermione's face, and she caught it and kissed his knuckles, not even noticing the blood smeared over them. "I love you too," she said back through a flood of tears, "Please don't die."

One corner of Draco's mouth lifted in an attempt at a smirk, and Hermione crumbled over his hand, pressing it to her face, bowed over it on her knees, crying and rocking back and forth, the remnants of her composure shattered to pieces.

"Someone get her out of here," Lupin's voice came as though from a great distance, and then warm, firm hands detached her grip on Draco's hand, pulled her to her feet gently but firmly. Hermione resisted at first, reaching out for Draco, struggling against the person keeping her from him, blind panic taking away her ability to think of anything but _him._

"It's all right, 'Mione," Ron's voice penetrated the wall of grief and terror that blanketed Hermione's brain. His arms were hot around her, his chest hard and warm and smelt like the iron tang of blood and the familiar scent of himself, and Hermione shuddered and gave way, clinging to him. "I love him. I love him, I can't lose him, I can't – can't…" The words were tumbling out incoherently, without thought of _who_ she was saying them to, and Ron was hugging her and rocking her in his embrace, making gentle shushing sounds. "I know," he mumbled, holding her tightly, head bent to hers so his voice was a hot breath on her temple. "I know you do."

"He's going to _die_, and – We never – he never… God, Ron I can't – not without him. I love… Oh _god_…" Hermione choked out hysterically between great, gasping sobs, and clutched Ron tighter, coming apart in his grip, and he hushed her again,

"I know, I know. I know you can't. It's okay. It's all right 'Mione. You won't have to. He'll – he'll…" Ron broke off and drew a sharp, harsh breath, and Hermione knew what that meant and sobbed harder.

"Malfoy's got a chance. They're going to portkey him to a Healer now. Lupin's slowed the worst of the bleeding. He'll be all right," Ron said in her ear, and Hermione didn't believe him.

"He's – the blood – god, how can he – he be all right? He –" She broke off with a horrible terror racing through her, cold and despairing, thinking of Draco dead. Draco dead, and that dreadful, hollow despair swallowed her up. He…she couldn't stand it if he died. He was…she… If he died, she didn't want to have to grieve Draco and then go on with life. Keep going. Keep fighting. Get over him. Heal. Move on. She didn't _want _to. And yet Hermione knew that she _would_ if he died, and it seemed like it would be some sort of horrible betrayal, that right now she couldn't _stand._

"He _should_ be all right," Ron amended, and the lie in his voice made Hermione want to hit him and scream at him, tear away from him and run to Draco. She pushed at Ron's chest in a blind panic, wanting to get to Draco before he died, before he… "Let me go. Let me _go!_" Hermione beat at Ron's chest, kicked him in the shin, and he swore and his hands slipped from around her, and Hermione swung around to see…. Nothing. Just blood on the grass. So much blood. Draco was gone already. Gone. And then Ron was holding her again, and this time Hermione didn't try to push him away.

# # #

Draco clawed his way up through a wall of dark fog and increasing pain, and forced his eyes open. His eyelids were so _heavy_, and the world was all blurry and dim, his head feeling muzzy, dull. Draco blinked up at the creamy, shadowed ceiling above him, and decided that his throat burnt too much for him to be dead. And a moment later, he was assured that he was alive, because he didn't think the afterlife would include a sudden smothering of wild hair, that got in his mouth and tickled his nose. Warm lips were kissing him gently but frantically; little dotting kisses on his left cheek, temple and ear, interspersed with murmured phrases like, "Oh my god, Draco."

"I thought you were going to…"

"Merlin…"

"You're going to be all right."

"I love you."

"Hermione?" he croaked into a suffocating mass of hair, and searing flames erupted in his throat. His next words, which had been going to be the ever eloquent, "What…?"" were instead, "Pain potion, _please_."

Draco's voice was cracked and hoarse, and sounded like some twisted, rough mockery of his own, and the pain speaking elicited was like having a hot lump of coal wedged in his throat. The hair withdrew, and a moment later a vial was held to Draco's lips, Hermione's head floating above it in the dim light. She looked exhausted and so, so happy, and it hurt like fucking _hell_ to swallow. She disappeared from view once Draco had drained the small vial of bitter liquid, and he carefully rolled his head to the side a little.

He wanted to see her. Those dark-circled eyes, that worry-crinkled brow, and worn, smiling mouth.

His head felt like it weighed a ton, and his throat seared with sheer agony that made him feeling like weeping, made him want to shudder into a little ball, to try to escape it but he couldn't. He must have made a sound, or shown his pain, because a warm hand wrapped around his fingers, and Hermione was saying something that was very hard to understand through the agony eating his throat.

"Don't speak," he made out at last. "Don't even try. Wait for the potion to work." He made an 'mm-ing' sound in acknowledgement and even that faint hum stoked the flames in his throat to beyond bearable. His mouth twisted up and his brows scrunched together, fingers squeezing so tight around Hermione's that it must be hurting her, but he couldn't help it and she didn't' complain. Merlin, this fucking hurt nearly as bad as his hand had when his father…Draco focused on Hermione's soft babbling, not wanting to remember that night.

"We've been giving you pain potions, but we couldn't give you too much…didn't want to risk overdosing you when you weren't awake and couldn't tell us how much was enough…I'm sorry. It'll only take a few minutes to take effect, and then it should be…better." She was crying, tears slipping down pale cheeks, and her voice shook, and smiling at her – a feeble twitch of his lips – only seemed to make it worse. Hermione sobbed and then grimaced, took a deep breath and wiped away her tears, calming herself with an effort. Draco just stared up at her, drinking her in.

"It's nearly eight o'clock now – you've been out all night, and the Healers said it was normal, but Merlin, I was so worried. That –that you wouldn't, wouldn't –" She stifled a sob. "You – you nearly died." Those gorgeous warm firewhiskey eyes were darkened with tendrils of clinging fear, with the memory of what had happened, and Draco squeezed her fingers and licked his dry lips cautiously.

"I didn't," he croaked and the wretched, rasping sound of his voice shocked him again, but at least the pain was less; the potion beginning to take effect at last. Hermione glared at him, wiping away a fresh, silent flood of tears that dripped off her chin onto the pillow by his head, "But you nearly _did_. You almost – you almost died on me." She touched his forehead, fingers pleasantly warm and gentle as she brushed a lock of hair back. "I – you can't do that ever again. _Ever_. I can't – I can't…" She clamped her mouth shut and set her jaw, chin trembling. "I love you. I don't care what – you're stopping this stupid, ridiculous farce right now, you understand me?" Her sudden change from abject, overwhelming distress to snapping anger gave Draco mental whiplash, and he blinked, rasing an eyebrow in lieu of a question.

"You could have _died_ last night. I don't care about the future. I don't _care_. I want you _now_. I'm can't keep doing this…we aren't even fooling ourselves. The kisses, the…"

Draco watched with interest, as Hermione looked away, a flush rising in her cheeks. The pain potion was replacing the horrible, consuming fog of pain with one that was mellow and warm, and he smirked at her. "The what?" he forced out in a tortured whisper, which ruined the light tone he was going for, but Hermione understood both his words and his intent, and frowned at him, cheeks a brilliant pink.

"The sex," she clarified and Draco made another 'mm-ing' sound, shut his eyes and _remembered_. His cock twitched and started to harden pointlessly as flashes of that afternoon ran through his head; messy and drunken and _wet_ and _hot_, and filled with frantic, angry need, and Draco knew he would have to make the next time like the first time should have been. Make it up to Hermione. Give her a long luxurious build up that had her trembling on the brink and begging to come. Do it face to face, telling her he loved her as he slid home. All the sappy, sentimental things that girls apparently loved; and that Draco had to admit, he wanted too. And Draco realised he had lost, utterly and completely, and he might as well not even bother trying to deny it. He had _lost_ and Hermione had won, and apart from the burn of losing – Malfoy's didn't lose – it was a relief.

Draco needed her – _wanted_ her – just as much as she wanted him, and Merlin's balls, a few millimetres deeper and he might not be alive right now. Lying in bed with his throat a dull hot ache, weak and with his brain floating off somewhere warm and contented, the threat of Azkaban seemed a very, very long way off. They might never even get that far. _He_ might not get that far, might not make it to the end of the war. Another incident like this, and Azkaban would never come around. It was a strange thing to reassure himself with – his own death as a comfort – but right now, high on pain potion with Hermione's fingers curled tight around his, it made perfect sense.

"Next time," he croaked, his potion-hazed grey eyes glued to her face, drinking in every glorious, weary inch of it, "Next time will be better."

Draco saw Hermione swallow hard; saw the question in her whiskey-brown eyes as she canted her head to one side, not daring to let herself believe he meant what he meant. "Next time?" she asked quietly, and Draco nodded the barest fraction, and a shudder ran through Hermione's frame, like all the tension and pain of the past few weeks was unravelling in a frayed rush.

"No point –" Draco's voice caught and cracked, dry as dead leaves, and Hermione twisted and caught up a glass of water with a bright Muggle straw in it, held it to his lips and he sipped gratefully. "No point in…_not_," he whispered, finding it difficult to articulate his thoughts through the haze that clouded his mind. "Could've died. Missed out on… May as well, right?"

Hermione's lips contorted into a laughing sob, and she covered her mouth with one hand, the other still twined up around his like a welcome anchor. "May – May as well?" she choked out, little snorting, teary laughs coming muffled from behind her hand. Her eyes glistened wet, and Draco felt like maybe he had said something wrong; only he couldn't remember what he said. He frowned, trying to recall it and failing.

"My god, Draco. The romance of the moment is killing me," Hermione continued, dropping her hand from her mouth to reveal an expression filled with a turmoil of messy emotions Draco couldn't manage to decipher. He thought perhaps he ought to apologise, and mumbled out a hoarse, "Sorry," eyes pleading on hers, wanting her to understand that… "I love you," he added quickly, and Hermione hitched a sobbing breath and swiped at her tears, chin trembling. "You – you love…" Hermione trailed off, shaking her head disbelievingly and Draco could tell now that her emotions were mostly what seemed to be exasperated indignation.

"If you ever, _ever_, pull anything like _that_ again, I will cut your bloody throat myself. You can't do that to me, Draco. To _us_. If we're going to have a relationship, we are going to have a Merlin-be-damned _proper_ relationship, with no noble, misguided notions of sacrifice, no stupid attempts to bury your head in the sand like some sort of ridiculous ostrich. Do you understand? You arrogant, stubborn, _thickheaded __bastard__._" Hermione's tone left no doubt that _that_ referred to Draco's attempted severance of their relationship, and her fingers shook in his.

"Don't yell at me; I nearly died," he whined plaintively, and Hermione laughed, a weak, half-hysterical sound, and then her lips were on his. Her hair fell around Draco's face like a curtain, and her lips were warm and dry and filled him with a – currently impotent – sparking need that ran molten along his bones and sank into his chest, making it ache with a strange kind of happiness. Her fingers squeezed around his like a lifeline keeping him from floating up off the bed and into clouds of delirium, and her other hand pushed gently through his hair, making his scalp tingle pleasantly. All soft mouths meeting cautiously, filled with barely restrained desperation; she afraid to hurt him, he afraid to hurt himself. Only the barest flicker of wet, hot tongue, but that was all it took to send a grinding, wrenching want through him, and his fingers twitched on hers. Merlin, he wished he wasn't injured. He couldn't imagine so much that he wanted to do to her – with her.

But all too soon Hermione drew away, lips grazing the tip of his nose and brushing faintly over his left eyebrow, before planting soft but firm on his forehead. "You need to rest, " she said; drawing away, smile on those soft, soft lips, fingers running through his hair over and over. A soothing little motion, nails dragging lightly over his scalp, her eyes fixed on his face and filled with tired worry, and happiness. Draco didn't argue with her; his eyes were barely cracked open, thanks to a heavy, drugged sleepiness, and rest – rest sounded good. He made a soft noise of agreement, thought that he smiled up at her, and then sleep reached up and dragged him down into blissful oblivion, her fingers still locked with his.

# # #

_Author's Note: _Well, what did you think? I was going for _all the feels_ this chapter, and I hope I succeeded :)

The very subtle foreshadowing I mentioned was in _Lycanthropy, Part 1: I Never Could_, was this:

"_Harry and I…we just don't want to see you wasting your time on some ungrateful prat who doesn't realise what an amazing girlfriend he's got. Y'know?" Hermione nodded. She imagined Ron would think her relationship with Draco fit into the wasting time category, if he knew about it_.

Ron knew about it :D As hopefully his "I know" reaction and general calm when Hermione was saying she loved Draco illustrated, this chapter. There will be more on Ron's reaction/knowledge, but yeah – he knew, and he's been keeping his mouth shut and being all mature about it ^_^ I thought it would be nice for Ron to do something mature and thoughtful, and I also thought it would be really funny if absolutely everyone knew about Hermione and Draco, while she (and he for a while) thought it was a total secret. Plus I thought it was just sooper clever of me :p

Speaking of foreshadowing – there is more in this chapter. Or rather, the answer to an important question that's asked in this chapter is spelt out pretty clearly in hints. I'm not sure how obvious it was, so…can you tell me what you think the question and answer are?

Also I would particularly love to know if you:

Liked the Draco and Pansy interaction? I found it surprisingly easy to write, even though I'm not that familiar with Pansy, really. Their conversation/interactions just flowed, and I liked the dynamic that formed. What did you think of it?

And,

Did you have _all the feels_ over Draco nearly dying, and how that went down? Did I manage to pull off making it emotive and all, or did it just fall flat 'cause you know he can't die? I tried so hard ::hopeful face::

And finally,

Was the little scene at the end with Hermione and Draco satisfactory? It's been so long since I've written happy things, I have no idea if it worked or not, lol. I was going for something quite sweet, that reflected Draco's rather altered states of mind throughout – agony, and then being high – and yet also said everything that they really need to say, without being too talky. Of course, they have more to talk about later, and other issues to sort through as a couple and such, but I wanted to say/illustrate everything that really mattered. And I didn't want Hermione to just take him back without scolding him, like some kind of doormat. I wanted some indignant feelings mixed in with the relief on Hermione's part. So, happy feels from that scene?

Gives me _all your loves_, and I will give you happy, lazy, smutty feels next chapter :D


	35. Inside These Arms

_Author's Note: _Whee! An update that _hasn't_ taken ages, for once – evidence that many reviews make me write quicker :D And the story has passed the 400-review mark! Squee! That's amazing and wonderful, and I love you all for being such wonderful readers and reviewers ::has her sights set on 500 and hopes flattery will get her everywhere::

This chapter was meant to be fluffy, but hasn't quite turned out that way – I seem incapable of fluff or something, I don't know. It's turned out odd and I'm not sure what to make of it, but I do like it, and it's still what _I_ would classify as a happy chapter. Plus, there's more, even-happier happiness coming next chapter, so…anyway,

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Inside These Arms**_

She says 'wake up, it's no use pretending'

I'll keep stealing, breathing her.

Birds are leaving over autumn's ending

One of us will die inside these arms

Eyes wide open, naked as we came

One will spread our ashes 'round the yard

[Naked As We Came, Iron and Wine]

# # #

…The floor is cold and hard. Draco is stranded like a beetle on its back, ready to have its wings and legs plucked off by children with cruel faces and sharp laughter. All he can move is his head, but he refuses to move it, refuses to look around at the mocking faces taking their pleasure in his terror. And it _is_ terror, abject and complete as he wills his limbs to _move_ and they remain limp and lifeless, splayed out over the chill marble. His wounded, naked back on the marble, and the chill seeping through his trousers, until his very bones feel heavy and aching with cold.

He remembers playing here as a child. Running through the expansive room, shoes clattering over the floor, the sound echoing up into the highest reaches of the ceiling. Hiding behind the heavy drapes when his mother and he played Hide and Seek, toes sticking out from beneath the curtains, but his mother always pretended not to see until she had searched everywhere else.

He can see his mother now, in his peripheral vision, her face lined with tears and horror and hands twisting together in front of her. But she does nothing; just stares at the floor at her feet with lowered, dull eyes, wet with the teras that trace down her cheeks and are mopped neatly up by her handkerchief. His back throbs with pain from the raw whip marks fresh across his skin – twenty deep stripes, flaying the flesh wide open. His knee is swollen to twice its proper size, and his mouth bloody from where someone struck him and his teeth sank through his tongue. Draco _refuses_ to show his pain. He won't entertain them; he will not be the one to give the Dark Lord cause to giggle with glee in that awful high pitch of his, dear Aunt Bella grinning wickedly beside her master.

Draco's master, too.

His father approaches with a glint of silver in his hand, sweeping across the floor with odd, disjointed speed, and the rest of the room fades away to a strange, black fog. Draco can still see his mother though; that little lacy handkerchief crumpled damply up in her tight grip, her usually refined features looking old and pained, a smear of blood on her lip where she has bitten through it. He can see everything so clearly. He shuts his eyes for a brief second, and wishes he was somewhere else. Wishes that this wasn't real, that it was just a nightmare. But the cold floor keeps seeping into the flayed stripes on his back and sending that icy, painful chill through him, and Draco knows it isn't a dream.

His hand. Oh Merlin, not his _hand_. His chin trembles and to his shame, his utter humiliation, tears spill over onto his cheeks. It's going to hurt; it's going to hurt so _much_, and Draco doesn't know if he can – if he can take it. But he doesn't have a choice. His _hand_. His eyes flick to it, just able to see it without moving his head; pale and maimed against the black marble floor, and the thought of having it cut from him completely is _abhorrent_. _Unbearable_.

Draco has three fingers and a thumb left to him, and he remembers, with the marble hard against the back of his head, what it felt like to have his missing fingers torn away. The sudden, _unbelievable_ agony of having part of himself ripped asunder. He tries to move his limbs, brows scrunching together with the effort, and nothing happens. Nothing.

He is completely immobile.

Helpless as a beetle on the floor of his home.

"Act like a Malfoy, boy," his father says harshly as he looms over Draco, his voice seeming to come from everywhere at once, beating disgust and disappointment into Draco's head. He feels a curling of shame in his gut, making him feel sick and small, like a beaten dog. He only ever wanted his father to be proud of him, he thinks pathetically, and a sob shivers from between his bruised lips, despite his efforts to hold it back. He is ashamed and he is scared, and there is no room for anger or hatred, just a wrenching, shaking horror.

The blade in his father's hand looks so sharp. So sharp. One of Aunt Bella's, Draco can see, inlaid with silver in swirling patterns, like the ones freshly carved into his stomach. He wonders how much effort it will take to get the dagger through the bone of his arm. Whether his father will break the bone, or need to use magic for that part. Bile is our in his mouth. He lies there helplessly and wonders how exactly his father is going to do it. How much it will hurt. Draco's gorge rises as he imagines the pain, and his hands would be clenched into white-knuckled fists if they weren't dead and limp, laid out over the marble like pieces of meat. Not his hand. He's only seventeen; he can't – can't lose his hand.

Crippled, he thinks, crippled and useless and worthless and it's what I deserve.

He deserves it for being part of the Death Eaters. Draco deserves it for being weak enough to join them, and deserves it for being weak enough to fail to do what the Dark Lord asked of him. Not _good_ enough to be other than a Death Eater, and yet too conscience-plagued and _weak_ to succeed as one. And for his crimes, Draco is going to have his right hand severed by his own father. And as he thinks of his father again, with dazed bewilderment at what is going to take place, a kick drives into his ribs and he bites back a scream as they snap and splinter under his skin.

"Be quiet," his father spits, and Draco realises he has been emitting a faint, horrified whimpering through thirst-cracked parted lips, and clamps them shut. Refuses to give the leering Death Eaters off somewhere in the inky black the pleasure of his fear. Or let them down by showing it like a weakling. He's not sure which; he only knows that he must deserve this. He was a trapped beetle on its back – and what is a beetle _for_ but the amusement of its captors? It is nothing important, nothing special, nothing… Draco feels sick and blurry, and he knows there must be a reason, has to be a reason, but nothing makes sense anymore and all he knows is that he doesn't want to have his hand cut off.

"Take it like a man," his father says, so cliché and yet there is nothing funny or blasé about it, just terror rising and rising and _rising _until Draco feels like he's choking. Tears bathe his face and he turns his head away, trying to hide his shame and weakness. It's not theirs to see. He does not want to be laid bare before them. This can't be happening. His father couldn't really…wouldn't really… Draco is helpless, unable to even twitch a finger, and his father's eyes carry an unpleasant gleam as he stands over Draco and twirls the knife in dexterous fingers, silhouetted against a backdrop of inky nothingness. Draco might not be able to consciously move his limbs, but they are trembling involuntarily with coldness and terror as his father reaches his right side and kneels with careful precision.

"Please don't," Draco gasps suddenly as he _snaps_ and breaks in two and shatters apart into a wreck of nothing and worthlessness and fear. He is whimpering in breathless moans of sick terror, and he begs over and over, crying messy, undignified tears. "Please not my hand, please don't – please, father. Father, please! I – I can't – _please_ don't, not – not my – my _hand_, I can't…please, _father_."

His father looks down at him, and he looks cold and disappointed, and Draco is shivering like he's going to tremor apart at the seams, and he is tears and snot and horrified terror because it's really going to happen and _he can't understand it_. Draco cannot comprehend how it is that he is lying on the floor of the room where he used to play Hide and Seek with his mother, waiting for his father to mutilate him. He licks his lips, and manages to croak out with thin, strained tatters of composure, "Mother. Go, please. Don't watch. Don't -" And then he stutters to a halt halfway through and presses his lips together, because if he keeps speaking his whimpering, shameful tears will turn into a heaving, sobbing wreck of panic and fear. And he doesn't want them to see that.

He doesn't want them to take that from him.

The Dark Lord's voice swells and reverberates through the room, a lazy, cruel tone with the brutal edge of command behind it. "_Stay_, Narcissa my dear," he says, and Draco sees from the corner of his eye, his mother shudder and crumple in on herself, head ducking further in acquiescence, fingers bloodless around the sopping scrap of lacy cotton.

"_Father_." Draco says it with despairing, urgent pleading; he tucked Draco in at night. He bought Draco his first broom. He sat by Draco's bedside when he was sick. He is his _father_. But there is nothing in his father's eyes but the light of a strange, horrible madness, and Draco looks away, looks out into the strange, inky black as the knifepoint pierces his skin. It goes deep and firm, steady in his father's hand, and the pain is _terrible_ but Draco refuses to make a sound, teeth grinding together as the pain begins.

And then the knife moves and cuts and _saws_,and everything is agony and screaming, screaming until his throat is hoarse and torn and bleeding ragged, screaming and _pain_ and…

# # #

"_Draco!_ Draco! Draco, wake up!"

There were warm hands on his shoulders, firmly pressing him back down onto softness, not cold, hard marble, and his throat was aflame but there was no pain in his wrist, just blessed nothingness. Draco opened his eyes to Hermione's face, her eyes bleary with sleep and filled with fear as she repeated his name over and over. He choked in a breath and fell back into the stack of pillows behind him, pulse whooshing fast in his ears as his mind tried to make sense of what was happening. What had happened? A nightmare. Just a nightmare. Fuck, it had felt so _real_. Like living through it all over again, and Draco realised that his cheeks were wet with tears and he went hot with embarrassment, swiping at them clumsily. Hermione released his shoulders as he sank into the pillows and her lips twisted into an expression of overwhelming sympathy, thumbs gliding quickly beneath his eyes and wiping away his tears.

"Do you want me to get you a pain potion?" she asked, her voice stuffed to bursting with worry and a groundless fear. She didn't need to be afraid. It had only been a nightmare. Hermione's hands trembled as she pushed her hair behind her ears, staring at him with big fear-round eyes, and Draco suddenly wondered with intense mortification, whether he had only been screaming in his _dream_, or…or whether he'd woken her with his cries. _Fuck_. He hadn't had a nightmare like that in months.

"No," he croaked, hand snapping out to latch around her slim wrist, and oh _Merlin_ it hurt to speak. "No, don't go." There was a feverish, wretched desperation in Draco's voice that he couldn't hide, and his fingers clung white knuckled to Hermione's wrist. He slid his eyes away from her, heart still racing as he _remembered_; remembered the feelings of helplessness, shame and terror from both the nightmare and the true memory. The echoes of pain thrummed in his stump, and he squeezed his eyes tight shut. "I –" he began in a thin, half-apologetic whisper, and Hermione interrupted.

"Can you move over?" she asked softly, a wealth of empathy in her voice, and Draco bit his lip as he shuffled across the narrow bed until his side was pressed against the wall, pain sparking in his throat as he moved his head. Fuck, it took such an effort just to move a few short inches; he was so bloody weak. Weak in so many ways, Draco thought vaguely, the dream still clear and hard in his mind. Hermione peeled the blankets back, and in an old tee shirt and sleep shorts, slid into the bed next to him, jostling the mattress and making him wince. She shot him a worried, apologetic look and settled back against the pillows curling onto her side so that her nose nuzzled up to his ear, and her arm wrapped over his middle.

She was heavy and hot and clinging to him like a limpet, and Draco drew in a deep breath and let it out again, careful and slow, letting Hermione's warmth seep into him, settle into his bones and warm him through. Her hair tickled his jaw and her fingers traced idle patterns over his ribs, and the scent of her; all soap and clean, and that indefinable smell that was _Hermione_, wafted over him, helping chase away the lingering, clutching shadows of his nightmare. He sighed and gingerly, cautiously, turned his head so that he could see her easily; those sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes all swimming with worry, and those soft lips that contorted into a jaw-cracking yawn, and then kissed his cheek gently.

They clung together in the dim room, cosy under the blankets, all folded up in each other in the silence, and all but the faintest remnants of unease slid away from Draco as he soaked Hermione's comfort in.

"Bad dreams?" Hermione asked quietly after a while, as if she wasn't sure if it was tactful to ask but couldn't help herself, and Draco made a short sound of assent and hooked his maimed arm over hers where it lay across his middle. She kissed his cheek tenderly, lips rasping over his stubble – in that prickly stage between intended beard and mere laziness. "I'm shaving that off tomorrow," she said decidedly as she pulled away and licked her prickled lips, and Draco smirked with silent amusement. Hermione shifted, nuzzled her face back against his cheek despite the stubble she complained of, and sighed loudly in his ear.

Merlin, he had fucking missed this. This wriggling, hair-in-his-face, breath-in-his-ear and yet somehow _perfect_ cuddling in bed, and the heavy warmth of her draped half over him, and her insatiable curiosity. Or more accurately; her nosiness.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Still just as tentative, her fingers bumping over his ribs, up and down in a vaguely ticklish, soothing motion. Draco shook his head slightly. There was no point; especially not now when he could barely whisper without the pain taking away his voice. And it wouldn't help anyway. There was nothing she could say to make it better; it wasn't a fear but a memory, and unless she could change the past, she couldn't take away Draco's lingering horror.

"No, not right now," he murmured simply, too tired and sore for the dry, snarky comments that simmered up to the surface of his mind. "W – what's the time? My – my throat…" It seared as he spoke, and Hermione seemed to understand and ever so carefully wriggled free of him and flung the covers back.

"When you woke me it was nearly midday," she said clambering out of bed, and Draco lay stranded on his back by the pain and bone-deep exhaustion as she disappeared from view. There was a rummaging, and then a clinking sound, and Hermione padded back into view with a vial in hand, which she passed to Draco as she sank onto the edge of the bed. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? Anything?" she asked as he gulped down the bitter dosage of pain potion. Draco began to shake his head, whisper 'no', and then swore internally. He wasn't hungry or thirsty, but he was suddenly aware that he really needed to…oh Merlin _damnit_.

"I need to get up," Draco said, weakly pushing into a sitting position and Hermione grabbed his elbow and steadied him as the world swirled and the blood rushed dizzyingly in his ears. He shut his eyes until the nauseous feelings went away, biting his lip and trying not to throw up on the bed. He opened them again and there she was, peering at him all worried and solicitous. "Healer Sylvan said you weren't supposed to get out of bed until tomorrow, at the very earliest. Draco – you nearly bled out. That's not a minor injury. Even with the blood-replenishing potions…you shouldn't be walking around."

Draco glared at the foot of the bed, cursing Healer Sylvan and his or her instructions to Hermione Granger, goody-good stickler for the rules. "I'm fine, Hermione. And I want to get up."

"Why?"

"_Because_," he growled and his throat did _not_ thank him for that, even though the pain potion was already starting to ease the pain. He could feel a hot flush starting to crawl up his face, and he ducked his head, staring at his hand and stump, lying together in his lap and in a moment of alien clarity Draco realised how grotesque it looked and shuddered.

"Because _why_?" Hermione sounded utterly bewildered, and concerned, and Draco wondered – not for the first time – how she was considered bright when sometimes she could be so damned _thick_. He shrugged off her hand on his arm, ignoring the prickling, hot pain in his throat as he swallowed hard and made to get out of bed, feet on the floor, wobbling upright if rather unsteady. Hermione pushed him back down with absurd ease – a push to his chest with the palm of her hand – and Draco scowled up at her, relenting.

"I need to…" Draco began nearly inaudibly, and trailed to a halt halfway through. This was not the sort of thing Draco pictured, when he imagined 'wounded hero reunited with his true bloody love'.

"I need to fucking piss, all right?" It came out sharp with anger as embarrassment seized him, and Hermione's cheeks pinked vaguely, she pressed her lips together, eyes slithering away from his face.

"Healer Sylvan left a bedpan for that. I can…" Hermione was red and stumbling over her words, and he was red and furious and mortified. "Or I can go get the Healer?" she added swiftly, and Draco shook his head too hard and pain gripped him in a chokehold. "Fuck off. I'm not bloody… _No_."

"You want me to…?" she misunderstood, her fingers plucking nervously at the hem of her tee shirt, intent unravelling a loose thread.

"_No!_ Shit no. Definitely…not."

"Well then what? You can barely stand, Draco. And Healer Sylvan _said_ that you're not supposed to get up yet." She always had to follow the fucking rules, Draco thought as humiliation swallowed him up and shat him back out.

"Hermione, I swear to Merlin, I am not…using a – a fucking _bedpan_."

"Well then, once you've wet the bed don't expect me to climb in with you," she said pertly, eyes flashing amber sparks, and amusement at his bloody expense tugging at her mouth. Draco _glowered_ at her.

"Ugh, you _bitch_," he said without real rancour, and gingerly sank his head into his hand, groaned into his palm.

"It's not my fault," she retorted defensively, and then sighed and sat beside him on the edge of the bed, the length of their thighs pressed together, her hand going to rest lightly on his knee. She nudged him gently, "I'm sorry, I know this is…awkward. But –"

"Hermione, please – please, just shut up and help me to the bathroom," he wrenched out past the pain into his palm, absolutely flaming with bloody humiliation, and there was a long, long pause as she considered it, and then she stood. Took his elbow and helped him up, and he felt ridiculous standing there swaying as she looped his maimed arm around her shoulders. They started a slow, unsteady shuffle toward the door, stuck in awkward silence. Draco supposed it had been too much to hope for, that getting back together would make everything come up unicorns and fairy-dust. No, he didn't get delicious bloody reunion sex and perfect, passionate exchanges of feeling – he got to hobble to the loo with his throat aching in pain and his face burning at the indignity of it.

"You know," Hermione began stiltedly as she fumbled the door open and they squeezed through the narrow doorway into the equally narrow hallway, "In Muggle hospitals you wouldn't need a bedpan, or have to get up either."

Draco grunted, vaguely curious but not about to admit it.

"If you were in a Muggle hospital, you could just lie back in bed and go, and not have to do –" She broke off as she nearly tripped over her own feet and staggered, bumped him into the wall and he bit back a cry of pain as his head _moved_, sharply, and the pain cut through the relief the potion was starting to create. "Not have to do _this_," Hermione continued, apologising and then leading them on down the hallway, slower now.

"What do they do then?" Draco asked, playing along with Hermione and trying not to lean too heavily on her, but his knees were weak and wobbly, and his head was swimming with blood loss and pain potion.

"They use catheters."

"Cath…?"

"Well, for you, being male, they take a thin plastic tube and insert it into the urethra, and –"

Draco blanched and his steps halted for a moment. Hogwarts wasn't exactly big on biology – none of the wizarding world was, unless you went into Healing after school, but the idea of putting anything up a _urethra_ triggered a feeling of _wrongness_, for some reason he couldn't quite place. "…Urethra?"

"My god. You don't know what…? First you've got no idea how the hymen works, then you've never heard of a urethra. I'm getting you a biology book when we get back to Godric's Hollow. Maybe a Children's Human Body Encyclopaedia, with illustrations so that you don't get too confused," she teased and Draco snorted, still taking one slow, wobbly step at a time, still trying not to lean on her too much, and still failing.

"Hermione…" he warned her with tired humour, blinking through dizziness.

"A urethra is where, urine – and semen if you're male – come from," Hermione said with blithe nonchalance, "So catheterisation is when they insert a plastic tube up the urethra, and into the bladder…"

Draco felt suddenly rather ill. Muggles were insane. Absolutely fucking bonkers. "They put a _tube_ up your _dick_?" he asked in horrified disbelief, refusing to give in to the urge to clutch the Malfoy family jewels protectively. "And that's considered _better_ than a _bedpan_? _Why?_"

Hermione paused in front of a door, and he could hear she was trying to repress giggles. "It doesn't hurt – not much, at least – and once it's in it doesn't hurt at all, and they arrange it so that the tube goes to a bag they hang off the side of the hospital bed, and you just…don't need to go. The bag fills up automatically as you make urine, and the nurses – Healer's assistants, I suppose you'd call them – replace the bag every so often, and people like _me_ don't have to haul stubborn bloody injured people who are _supposed_ to be resting, all the way to the toilet." She shot him a pointed glare, with no real annoyance behind it.

Draco arched an eyebrow, rather more than mildly disgusted. "They hook it to the side of the _bed_. Where people can _see_ it," he repeated, the whole concept of these cath-whatsits sounding painful, humiliating, insane, and _very_ Muggle. He didn't tell Hermione that – he had a feeling calling Muggles insane might end up with him being left in a heap in the hallway to piss himself. Which didn't sound very appealing.

"Well, it's not obvious, no. But everybody urinates, Draco, it's hardly a secret," Hermione said gravely, but there was a bubble of humour in her voice, and her eyes were warm and bright. He gave her a dry look, still grimacing at the thought of someone shoving a tube up his dick, but they were at the toilet, and while he might be cringing, Draco realised he wasn't embarrassed anymore. He hadn't even been thinking about the indignity of everything. Hermione grinned at him and pushed the toilet door open, and Draco realised that distracting him had been the whole point of that disturbing little story.

Gratitude swept him up suddenly – or maybe it was the pain potion making him light-headed – and Draco grabbed hold of the doorjamb to steady himself and, ignoring the pain that flashed up, bent his head to kiss the tip of Hermione's nose. Merlin, he had missed her so fucking much.

# # #

Hermione got Draco back to bed with no little effort. He was heavy, and far weaker from blood loss than he would admit, Healer Sylvan's extra-strength pain potion hitting him hard and making him clumsy. Getting him to lie down in bed wasn't easy either, as the potion had swept him off into muddled half-delirium. He stood looming over her on unsteady feet, rubbing his thumb distractingly over her lower lip, petulantly mumbling something about how, "It isn't fair. You and me, here alone, and I'm…I can't…shit…. it isn't fucking _fair_."

A mixture of persuasion and gentle force got Draco into the narrow bed, only he took her with him – squashed to his chest with his maimed arm pinning her there. He kept groping her blindly; his gorgeous grey eyes glazed on her face, muttering in that rasping, strained voice, what sounded like, "Fuck…want your luscious bloody arse…"

And then when Hermione finally managed to detach herself from his pinning hold, Draco's hand slid up beneath her baggy tee shirt quick as a snitch. His dexterous hand sought out her breasts, rolling her nipples in turn between a finger and thumb and sending wrenching want crashing like a lightening bolt through her. It took a brief, gentle scuffle to free herself from him, and Hermione's mouth was quirked with amusement by the end of it, her insides all fuzzy and warm feeling, because there was a strange sort of sweetness to half-delirious-Draco.

It took her a while, but at last she got him propped comfortably up on a stack of pillows in the bed, tucked in neatly with the thin bandage across his throat a stark white. She sat in the chair by the bed, a glass of water in hand, giving him sips of it through a straw. Draco watched her intently, talking in between sips in that rough, tortured voice, mostly bits of phrases that sounded like nonsense to her. It could have been boring except that Hermione was happy to nod along with whatever Draco said, content in just soaking in the fact that he hadn't died, and that he'd stopped being a stubborn idiot.

Eventually, after finishing his glass of water, and babbling a little more nonsense that he was going to be terribly embarrassed about if he remembered it, Hermione thought with a smile, Draco drifted off to sleep with a little crinkle of pain between his dark brows. Hermione got up stiffly and dug through the bag she had packed when she had returned to Godric's Hollow after the mission. There had been no way she had been willing to be away from Draco, not now that everyone knew about how she felt, and there was no reason to hide it and pretend she _wasn't_ going half-mad with fear. Lupin had, after a short, meaningful exchange of looks with Tonks, agreed that Hermione could go to the safehouse Draco was being healed at. So she had torn upstairs and thrown a wild assortment of items into a bag without thinking, desperate to get to Draco's side, still unable to convince herself that he was really alive and going to be all right.

Which, Hermione thought ruefully as she settled back into the chair by Draco's bed, led to issues such as her most interesting book being _Innovations in Potions: An Advanced Guide to Potions Research_. She put her bare feet up on the bed, wriggling her toes against the side of Draco's knee through the blankets, and opened the book with a sigh.

Draco slept all afternoon, Hermione prodding him half-awake periodically to administer more pain potion. Healer Sylvan came up at five with a blood-replenishing potion, chicken broth, and a wide smile. Draco suffered sleepily through a brief examination, and Healer Sylvan's round, serene face was cheerful beneath his mop of curly grey hair as he pronounced Draco much improved, despite what looked like a developing fever. Draco grumbled something that sounded like, "Fuck off," and Hermione inhaled a sharp, embarrassed breath and tried to apologise to Sylvan, only to have her apology ruined by Draco repeating himself, with more irritation this time.

"Make sure he has all the broth, and wake him at around midnight for a dose of pain potion, and call me if his fever gets too high," Sylvan instructed, appearing completely unruffled by Draco's horrible manners, and left Hermione to try to do as Sylvan ordered, while he went to attend to the several other patients also at the safehouse.

Getting a shirty, sleepy, delirious Draco to drink up his broth resulted in what felt like half of it spilling down Hermione's front and over the bedcovers, as she quietly fumed to herself and persisted with growing exasperation to try to coax him to drink. It took promising to give him _anything_ he wanted once he was better, if he would just bloody well drink – a promise Hermione wasn't sure if she hoped he would remember or not – and he finished the broth without anymore complaint. After that, Draco kept flicking distractingly sly glances at Hermione as she fed him like a baby bird, a tired but lascivious smirk shaping his mouth, glazed grey eyes sparking with not-quite-coherent want.

"I need – I think I need the bathroom again," Draco mumbled, blinking up at Hermione blearily as she set the emptied bowl of broth on the bedside table. She sighed and brushed her hair back, tugging the bedcovers off him and helping him sit up, her mouth tightening when Draco made a rough little sound of pain as his sleepy head lolled and then jerked up. He shouldn't be out of bed, she thought desperately, he should be resting. But try telling _him _that. He was a terrible bloody patient, and Hermione supposed she shouldn't be surprised, considering what he was like when he was well.

"Come on, then," she said, slipping her arm around him and helping him wobble upright, pupils little pinpricks in his irises from the pain potion. He was dead on his feet, steps stumbling and clumsy, leaning heavily on her, his bare skin hot as a brand wherever it pressed against her, black pyjama trousers low on his hips, and Hermione both worried about him and wished he was well. Wanted to twine herself around him like a clinging vine and kiss him long and lazy. But he wasn't well, and once she had steered him back to bed, she settled on the edge of it and laid her wrist over his forehead. He was hot, but not dangerously feverish, so Hermione just gave him more water and tugged the sheet and a thin blanket up over him, dropping a kiss on his forehead and watching him from her chair as he drifted back into restless sleep.

Hermione was bone weary herself – she had only caught a couple of hours sleep in the last thirty-six or so hours, and the mission and events following it had left her wrung out and shaking with exhaustion. But she didn't want to fall asleep while Draco had a fever, so she drank down a Pepper-Up potion Healer Sylvan had reluctantly left for her, and opened up _Innovations in Potions: An Advanced Guide to Potions Research_ again for lack of anything else to do. Every so often Draco shifted his head on the pillows with a wince cutting across his features, and murmured in his sleep. "Mother," he muttered several times with a childish hurt and longing that made Hermione's heart ache for him. And her name, a mumbled, "'Mione," that made a smile creep over her lips.

He still looked too pale, drained of blood until he was almost as white as the bandage that wrapped his throat. His hand was nestled on the pillow by his head, curled into a loose half-fist, fingers twitching now and then. Draco's eyebrows were so dark in contrast to his palest blond hair, and his lashes cast little spiky fans of shadows on his cheeks in the dim torchlight. He looked almost peaceful – almost, and Hermione checked his forehead periodically, monitoring his fever. Draco was hot, but still not terribly so, and so she simply stripped off the blanket leaving just a light sheet draped over his body, and he made a little snuffling sound and his brows scrunched briefly together, before smoothing into relaxation again. Hermione yawned despite the pepper-up, and tried to read, squinting with intent concentration at _Innovations in Potions_.

But it was horribly dry, and she was wrung out and weary, and before long the words were blurring on the pages. Hermione wondered what the Order had done with Pansy Parkinson as a sliver of moonlight slipped through a gap in the curtains and fell across her book. And then, flicking idly through the crisp pages of her book, having given up the pretence of reading, Hermione's mind wandered to the Order – to Harry and Ron and everyone, who all seemed so far away. Not just in distance – and Hermione had no idea where this safehouse even _was_, so she could be on the other side of Britain for all she knew – but mentally. They were filed away in the back of her mind, as if it had been years since she had seen them last, filed away behind a fog of weariness, and worry over Draco. So much had happened, and Hermione was past the point of exhaustion and teetering on the brink of collapsing from it, and part of her wanted her friends, to bolster her up like they almost always did.

She _missed_ them, even though it hadn't even been a day yet since she had seen them. Hermione hadn't even had a chance to talk to anyone about her inadvertently revealed relationship with Draco, and surprisingly enough no one had cornered her to ask about it in the frenzied brief time that she had spent at Godric's Hollow, before coming here. Not even Ron had confronted her. Hermione wasn't looking forward to explaining everything when they returned to Godric's, and she wished she didn't have to, but they were her friends, and they would expect some sort of… justification. Oh Merlin damnit. Hermione made a face, and changed her mind about seeing them. She could imagine their reactions to her relationship with Draco, and her imaginings weren't exactly pleasant.

Hermione wished with sleepy simplicity that she and Draco could just stay here forever. In this cosy old farmhouse in the midst of the countryside, in this neat little room, in this moment, with warm flickering torchlight, and a peaceful stillness that sank into her bones.

Even with Draco injured and feverish, there was a delicious intimacy to this; a little bubble that safely encased the two of them – just the two of them alone – in warm, glowing torchlight, close cream walls, and hot chicken broth. Except that there was also a fragility in the air that made Hermione want to crawl into bed with Draco and wrap herself to him, place her palm flat on his chest and listen to his heart thudding steadily. He nearly died. He wants to be with her. He's going to be all right. They love each other. _They_ will be all right. Hermione's head tipped down heavily as her eyes fell shut, and she jerked back into startled wakefulness, grabbing _Innovations in Potions_ before it slid off her lap and landed on the floor.

Draco was still sleeping deeply, his breathing heavy and slow like a whispering lullaby, and inevitably Hermione slipped into a light, uncomfortable sleep on the chair. Her head wobbled and dropped forward by inches, slumped in the chair with her feet up on Draco's bed, and _Innovations in Potions_ clutched tightly in her sleeping fingers.

# # #

Hermione scrabbled into terrified consciousness, heart racing in her chest as she leapt to her feet – _Innovations in Potions_tumbling forgotten to the floor with a thunk. The stifled cry that had woken her had cut off abruptly, and Draco was sitting bolt upright in bed, half-awake and shivering. His eyes stared blankly straight ahead of him, silvered grey and wet, and his chest was heaving with shuddering, gasping breaths, his cheeks were streaked with tears that made Hermione's own breath catch painfully in her throat.

Hermione scrambled onto the bed on her knees, still half-asleep, instinctively wrapping herself around Draco. She flattened one hand on his back, holding him close, the other hand petting shakily over the back of his head as she made little shushing sounds. _Merlin_, he had scared her. Draco's hand came up to clutch at her wrist, hard and desperate, and she gently pressed his face into the curve of her throat, kissing his temple, her heart still fluttering shock-quick.

"It's all right. It was just a nightmare," Hermione said softly, fingers trailing up and down Draco's spine, and carding through his hair. "It was just a bad dream." Some of the tension shuddered out of him then, and the muscles in his back relaxed a little under her fingers as he let out a low, rattling sigh, nuzzled his face harder against her and pressed a kiss on her collarbone. She laid her cheek against the top of his head, and wondered what he had dreamed about, that could do this to him. His hand, she thought, and wondered _why_ – they'd slept in the same bed often, and he'd never woken her with a nightmare before. It couldn't be the fever; that felt like it had broken. Draco's maimed arm came up around Hermione's waist, his hand still holding tight to her wrist like a lifeline, and he kissed her collarbone again, his breath beginning to even out, hot on her skin.

"No. It wasn't," Draco said raspingly, sounding clearer-headed than he had all day, crisp Malfoy sharpness in his tone. He pulled away from her and sank back onto his pillows with a grimace of pain, letting go of her wrist reluctantly. "It was a memory. And…" His lips twitched and nearly shaped a pained sneer, his voice wasn't quite even when he spoke, "It's not all right."

Hermione bit her lip as his eyes clearly flicked down to his maimed arm, so familiar now that she hardly ever noticed as unusual, unless she expected to _feel_ a hand and didn't. Seeing it was just _normal_ now; just him. "I'm sorry," she said faintly, unable to stop herself from imagining the many ways it could have happened, horrifying scenarios prowling through her brain, and she caught glimpses that made her shudder. Hermione didn't want to picture Draco having _that_ done to him, but she couldn't help it, and her eyes prickled with tears and her mouth trembled, and she got up quickly; busied herself with picking up her forgotten book so he couldn't see her face and know what she was thinking.

Draco groaned and rubbed his hand over his eyes, let out a long breath. "I don't know why I'm dreaming about it. I haven't for months. I thought…_fuck_." His face was thrown into sharp relief by the torchlight, and Hermione noticed lines of pain cut into his thin features; more pain than there should be. She remembered Healer Sylvan's instruction and shoved the heel of her hand against her forehead in frustration. "Oh _damnit_. Merlin, I fell asleep and forgot to give you your pain potion. I'm sorry." Hermione hurried over to the little desk in the corner where the vials sat in a neat row, and took one up; a delicate glass phial filled with a pale reddish liquid. "No wonder you're talking normally," she commented, apologetic and rueful as she popped out the cork with her thumbnail and pattered back across the room to Draco.

He gave her a sharp, raised eyebrow glance, still pale and shaken looking, but coherent and Draco again. "What exactly did I say?"

"That you've been harbouring a secret attraction towards Harry for years, which is why you were so upset when he refused your friendship in first year," Hermione said wickedly, struggling to keep a straight face. Draco looked horrified for a brief second, and then scowled at her. "You're a terrible liar, Hermione."

"I had you for a second there. Makes me wonder… Now here, drink." She held out the vial, grinning smugly to herself, and Draco stared at it suspiciously with narrowed grey eyes, making no move to take it.

"I'm not sure I want to." He glanced up at her, sweeping his hair off his face. "What _did_ I say?"

"Just nonsense, really. Something about how a sock couldn't fit there, and that you thought the bath was too cold, and that there were too many rabbits in the bed. And that I had a –" Hermione blushed slightly but went on, "And you said that I have a luscious arse."

He smirked. "You do."

She thought, _and you called for your mother in your sleep like your heart was being ripped out and stomped on_, and didn't say it, pushing the potion at him instead. "Drink. It's been hours since your last dose; your throat must hurt."

"No. Well, yes, it hurts like fucking murder," he rasped in that thin whisper, and Hermione's throat ached with sympathetic pain. "But I don't want the potion."

She frowned at him, irritated and confused. "But you _have_ to. You know I was only teasing, before. About Harry, I mean."

"Seeing as I don't harbour a secret attraction to Potter, yes, I realise you were only teasing, Hermione." He said dryly, and stared down at his right arm – at the stump, and remembered pain flickered on his face. "I think it's why I'm having the nightmares."

"Healer Sylvan didn't say anything about the potion causing nightmares," Hermione said as she sat on the edge of Draco's bed, drawing the vial back to herself and resting her hand in her lap, being careful not to spill any liquid. He couldn't just refuse his potion. The Healer had _said_, and besides, Draco must be in horrible pain right now. Hermione had seen it happen, had her hands on the wound – seen Sylvan healing it; the horrible, deep gash, with nicked artery and trachea, and Dark magic writhing through it. It took time as well as magic to heal such deep wounds. "You need it."

Sylvan had _said_ Draco was to take it, and Hermione wasn't about to disobey a Healer's orders.

"I'm fine," Draco muttered and his hand fisted in the sheet as he spoke and his voice cracked, belying his assurance.

"No you're _not_. Just take the bloody potion, Draco. Healer Sylvan didn't mention any side effects. It's probably just a coincidence."

"No." The word was full of finality.

"But –"

"_No._ I – I can't, Hermione. I fucking won't…" Draco trailed off, his fist clenched white in the sheet, and there was a pleading desperation in his voice that made Hermione flinch and decide against arguing with him. She wordlessly replaced the vial with the others on the desk, shoving the cork firmly back in and walking back to Draco, her face all scrunched with worry. His lips were bloodless and his eyes far away, pain etched into his features as the pain no doubt gnawed at him.

"Can I?" she waved vaguely at the bed, feeling suddenly awkward and shy. As much as they both wanted to be together now – _were_ together now – a lot had happened between them over the past, well, since they first met each other, really, she thought slightly facetiously. _Really_, they need to talk about…things, but not right now. Now was definitely not the time. But it left Hermione feeling a little unsure and nervous, and relief flooded her when Draco tried to nod and winced, stopped himself.

"Please," he said, and his voice was gravely and strained and his eyes burnt on her, and Hermione felt a warm shiver trickle into her core. She slipped into bed next to him, her hand folding on top of his, rubbing over his knuckles one by one with her thumb until his hand relaxed slightly. Draco let go of the sheet and hooked his arm around Hermione so that she snuggled into him on her side, her head pillowed on his shoulder. She curled her arm around his middle and sighed with utterly selfish contentment at the feel of his warm, naked torso, and the way his fingers brushed idle and light over her forearm. It had been too long since they'd had even this small degree of peace between them.

He was lucid, which was nice; Draco again. All spiky vulnerability, wrapped up in snark and awkward history and something that made Hermione want to cling to him, made her pulse skip and her chest deliciously tight. But before long the first flush of enjoyment at being curled up with him wore off, and Hermione noticed his tense shoulders, and that his fingers brushing over her arm seemed more like he was trying to distract himself than idly enjoying touching her. She laid her palm over his sternum, slid it up a little and felt his heart beating hard and quick. She didn't know if it was the pain or whether he was thinking about the nightmares, or both. And she never could keep her mouth shut.

"Does it hurt?"

He laughed softly at the question and stifled a gasp. "Yes." One word, bitten out and Hermione nibbled on her lower lip, wishing she could take his pain away. If only he would take the pain potion. Bloody Malfoy stubbornness.

"Are you sure you don't want to take the potion?" she asked hesitantly, and Draco made an annoyed sound, his fingers fluttered on her arm. "Yes."

"Do you – _if_ you want to talk about…the nightmare…I mean…" Hermione offered haltingly before she could stop herself, her chest tight, but the feeling no longer a good one. Draco was silent for a very long time, and Hermione had just decided she had said the wrong thing, was berating herself for prying, when he said very quietly, "I cried."

She drew in a sharp breath and her fingers pressed a little harder into Draco's chest, like she wanted to sink into him. Two little words, hanging in the air, and Hermione felt so angry at what had been done to him, and so desperately sorry for him. Draco sighed and shifted on the pillows, began to speak, the words coming slowly and low, and very, very distant. "Voldemort had me pinned to the floor in the ballroom, and everyone was there. To _watch_. I was their entertainment for the evening. Their fucking _toy_. I couldn't believe that it was happening. That it was really going to happen. I thought… Right up until it actually happened I thought that it…wouldn't." Emotion seeped into his dispassionate voice, and Hermione clung closer to him, feeling his heart begin to race harder and faster under her hand.

"Mother was there, watching, weeping into a hanky. And father was there…with the knife. One of Aunt Bella's blades."

Hermione's breath froze in her chest and her eyes slid shut. A knife. His father cut Draco's hand off with a _knife_. Not quick, clean magic like she had thought was most likely, but the slow torture of a knife, slicing slowly through flesh and tendons, and Hermione felt _sick_. She couldn't bear the thought, but of course she had to because it was what happened to him, and he had borne it happening to him, so she should at least be able to manage hearing what… and then Hermione realised he was talking again, and stilled her panicked thoughts and made herself listen.

"I cried, and I begged father not to. _Begged_ him. But he did it anyway. Of course he did." Draco paused, and Hermione untangled herself from him a little, pushing herself up on her elbow and staring down at his cold, stark face. She ran her fingers over his forehead, an ineffective comfort, and he frowned as if her touch irritated; trapped her fingers in his and entwined their hands together, resting them on his chest. Draco didn't look at her once, staring at the wall opposite instead, and the line of his jaw was tense, a muscle at the side jumping convulsively as he swallowed and grimaced with pain. He kept talking.

"The first cut wasn't so bad – I thought, I thought that maybe I could keep from screaming. Refuse them their entertainment…and make my father proud."

_Make my father proud._ It was a hideously twisted statement, just tossed in there dreamily, as if Draco was utterly lost in memory and didn't even realise how _sad_ and _wrong_ what he said was. Hermione fought back tears as she stared at Draco's blank grey eyes set in their bruised hollows, thinking of him lying helpless on the Manor's cold floors and trying not to scream, so he could make the man who was severing his hand _proud_. She felt sick. So terribly sick.

"But it _hurt_ so much. So…so much. I don't – don't remember all of it. I think I passed out for a while when he snapped the bone," Draco said faintly, and Hermione couldn't help it; she choked and wrenched in a gurgling breath, stomach roiling. He gave her an unreadable glance, and squeezed her fingers a little tighter as tears rolled down her cheeks and sploshed on Draco's chest and shoulder. He was comforting her, with that small, tight grip on her fingers. Comforting her while he related his torture, and it made Hermione's heart ache, a physical pain drumming and squeezing behind her ribs. He shouldn't have to comfort her.

"But I do remember screaming, and screaming. And begging and begging and…and…I would have done _anything_ for it to stop. _Anything_." The admission tore from Draco's throat like he was ashamed of it, of what it _meant_, and Hermione's lips trembled, and it was her turn to squeeze _his_ fingers reassuringly.

"And…and then it was over, and Voldemort mended the wound just enough that I wouldn't die, and then they just…left me there. In a puddle of blood and…" He didn't finish that sentence, his cheeks a humiliated pink despite his blood loss, and Hermione knew what he had been going to add. She had wet herself during the torture at the Manor, and the feeling of degradation, mortification, had been…overwhelming. She wasn't surprised Draco didn't want to say it aloud to her.

"No one came to get me. Not even mother. I – I waited and waited, for what felt like hours, in too much pain to move, but no one came. They just left me there, like I was just some worthless toy they'd played with, and broken, and didn't want anymore. Even _mother_." Draco's lips clamped together, and his eyes squeezed shut, brows all scrunched up, and Hermione could see a glint of wet on his lashes as his chin quivered with suppressed tears.

"I can't – can't dream about it again. It's too real, too…I just can't," he admitted through gritted teeth, like it was a weakness to be ashamed of.

"I know. I understand," Hermione said softly, and leaned forward to kiss Draco's cheek gently, not knowing what else to do or say in the wake of his confession. It was only meant to be a comforting, meagre gesture; all she knew to do, except Draco's eyes flashed open all molten silver and pain, and his hand ripped from hers and grabbed her hair, twined in the mass. He pulled her mouth to his, all hard, edges and desperation, mouths meeting, and he tasted like sleep and hints of chicken broth and the bitterness of his last dose of pain potion, and he moaned not with pleasure but pain as he pushed up into the kiss. It was quick and brutal, and Hermione felt a pulsing thrum begin at the junction of her thighs as she read the _need_ in his eyes.

He pulled away gasping and _angry_, as if he wished he hadn't told Hermione and bared himself to her – regretting cracking open the shell of that secret and letting it all out.

"Your throat…" she protested weakly, but Draco was already pushing her back onto the bed, and her thighs were parting eagerly of their own accord as he pulled at her pyjama shorts. Hermione kept her eyes on Draco's face, his hair falling across it and half obscuring it; but there were flashes of compressed lips and furious grey eyes, as though Draco was boiling over with the memories of his degradation, and determined to take them all out on her. Her pyjama shorts slid down Hermione's legs and her hands found themselves lost in his hair, on his shoulders, sweeping over his jaw, fingernails scratching down his sides as Draco shoved her tee shirt up and laved briefly at her nipples, sucked at them, pulled away and nipped at her throat.

And then his fingers were suddenly, shockingly between her legs, sliding over her slick flesh and Hermione gasped. Two long fingers, pushing unceremoniously into her and stretching her deliciously and another gasp caught in her throat and then slithered out as a moan, and her spine stiffened, her belly tightened with raw, grinding pleasure. And then his fingers withdrew and Hermione moaned again, this time at the loss, eyes as wide and glazed as if she'd taken a dose of his pain potion, scrabbling at him, wanting him _back_. Back inside her, filling her, those nimble, skilful fingers making her feel like fire was blossoming inside her, curling, licking flames sending pleasure burning to life. She wanted it _back_.

Hermione didn't have to wait long, with her breath caught in her throat and greedy fingers grabbing at him blindly. Draco was rough and efficient, shoving his pants down just enough to free his cock and rolling onto her, over her, above her, his jaw clenched tight with the pain of his injury. Hermione was caught up in his frantic need, caught up in his blurring, desperate want; reflecting her own back to him, until they were feeding each other's desire and magnifying it into a creature that swallowed them both up without a hope. Her tongue slid hungrily over his as Draco kissed her hard and open mouthed, and he whimpered raw and low in the back of his throat at the hurt he had to feel as he bent his head to her mouth.

And then he was fumbling with his cock, pushing it against her entrance and she shifted, wriggled, and – there! – her mouth fell open and she drew quick breath. Draco was in her with a sharp, uncontrolled jerk of his hips and Hermione gave a twisted, thready moan at the _feeling_. She felt filled and stretched and exquisitely sensitive, and her hips bucked up, her teeth clenched and her fingers dug into his lean upper arms, eyes squeezed tight-shut as she absorbed the sensation. Draco bent his forehead down to rest awkwardly on hers, their noses touching, jerking and shifting as he thrust, hard and deep enough to make her moan helplessly with each one.

And then Hermione felt a drop of wetness fall just beneath her eyebrow, trickling down onto her eyelid, and with a shock that made her stomach flip and her breath stop for a moment, she realised Draco was _crying_.

Hermione thought of Draco lying on the marble floor and crying as he begged his father not to do it, and her heart wrenched and she blinked back sharp tears, curled her fingers into his hair and found his mouth with hers, hot, fumbling kisses. Trying to soothe his pain with her mouth, trying to take it into herself and comfort him.

But a moment later, there was another drop, and Hermione cracked her eyes open just enough to peek through her lashes at his face. She swept her thumbs over the faint wetness beneath Draco's eyes, and he flinched and his rhythm stuttered and two faint blotches of pink appeared high on his cheeks. "_Don't_," he gasped out, angry and rough, and Hermione dragged his head down to her, buried his face into her neck and the shift angled her them so that his next thrust went even deeper, and they moaned in unison. It was joining and clinging and falling, and if she pushed up, just like – ah – _that_ then there was pressure rocking and bumping against her clit, and Hermione's mouth parted and trembled open in a soundless cry as her pleasure rushed and grew, and _grew_.

The junction of her neck and shoulder was wet with his tears, and his fingers were digging cruelly hard into her hip, and he was making little sounds of pain and pleasure that made her twitch and clench hard around his cock, buried so deep inside her. Draco thrust into her until it _hurt_ deliciously, and the pleasure built and _built_, and yet Hermione kept thinking of him begging Lucius to stop, to not do it, and sick nausea mingled with her pleasure, and strangely – wrongly – both created the same roiling tightness in her belly. It was awful and it was amazing, and the feeling was jarring and discordant and Hermione was too lost to care.

She gasped and moaned with each hard jerk of Draco's hips, the sounds jolted out of her, her fingers twining in his hair and clutching at his shoulders, legs bent and clamped around him. She tried to focus on him, and not what he'd told her. Not his father bent over him, carefully slicing through flesh, measuredly snapping the bones and _snicking _the knife through tendons. She tried to lose the hideously unwelcome thoughts by melding into Draco, clinging to his sweat-damp hot skin, opened her eyes to his platinum hair and lean, pale shoulder, thinking of only him, _now_, and not back then, not screaming himself raw with the agony as the blood…

It didn't work. Hermione couldn't help it; the images kept intruding jarringly, and she wondered in a tiny still coherent part of her mind if he was thinking of the same thing, and a knot of emotion stoppered up her throat. This was his comfort, she told herself, and tried to give herself over to it. And it wasn't so hard, in the end. Draco kept rocking against her clit with every move, and his cock was going so _deep_, and it took only a little longer before Hermione's muscles began to seize in the familiar burgeoning crest of orgasm, everything tightening, her toes curling, mouth open and eyes shut. She forgot about everything but the sensations inside her, coiling her tight as overwound clockwork.

"Oh – oh god, I'm…" was all Hermione managed before she came in a wrenching, spasming crash. Her inner muscles clamped erratic around Draco's cock, and she heard him moan muffled against her skin, with surprise and needy bliss at the feel of it. The seizing perfection of orgasm rolled through her hard; her knees jerking up toward her body, her clit a sea of sharp pleasure, her womb clenching, a desperate mewling sound tearing from her lips, and Draco kept thrusting, kept moving, and it was all just so much, so _much_. Hermione clung to him and shuddered as she rode it out, drowned in it, fingertips digging at his scalp and twisting hard in his soft hair.

And then just as the last few spasms racked her, Draco made another muffled, needy sound, and his hips jerked faster and out of rhythm. It only took a few urgent thrusts, and then his shoulders shuddered and his teeth clamped over Hermione's collarbone as he made a raspy, low moan, cock buried deep inside her. And then it was over, and Draco shoved himself up and rolled clumsily off her, his breath coming quick and hard, and when she rolled her head to look at him, Draco's hand was loosely around his throat, a vertical crease gouging deep between his brows, mouth twisted. Hermione blinked sleepily, dazedly, and sat up with muscles that felt weak and wobbly, grabbed the blankets and dragged them up. His cum trickled out between her thighs, and she felt pleasantly swollen and tender, a soreness that went deep inside; a delicious, throbbing ache.

"It hurts?" Hermione asked him stupidly as she tucked the blankets around them, head all muzzy like it was stuffed with cotton wool, and Draco nodded slightly, mouth still twisted up in pain. Her skin was still damp where his tears had dripped onto her, and she hated the fact that he wouldn't use a pain potion; wished that she had Muggle pain relief. Twice they'd had sex now, and both times the aftermath had not been what Hermione had read about in romances. It wasn't disappointment she felt though, it was hurt, and it wasn't so much because of him, as it was _for _him. She shut her eyes and sighed, wishing for perfection, which was silly because Hermione knew perfectly well that perfection was unattainable, something to always strive towards, and never achieve. In both studies, and sex, it seemed, and she would strive just as hard at the latter, as she did at the former, she decided with a hint of fragile amusement.

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence, and then Draco said awkwardly and abruptly, "Sorry."

Hermione furrowed her brow and propped herself up on an elbow, staring down at him as her fingers traced over his chest. He was the picture of taut, angry humiliation, and beneath that, the pain of his injury. She nibbled at the inside of her cheek, opening her mouth and shutting it again, not knowing what to say. What _could_ she say? It had been…unexpected and gut-wrenchingly good and awful all at once, and he was embarrassed about crying, and she was shaken that he had cried, because he was _Draco_ and he didn't do that sort of thing. Hermione hissed in a sharp breath, head beginning to ache. She wasn't equipped to deal with this sort of thing.

It hadn't been sex because he had just simply _wanted _her; it had been all tangled up in what he had just laid bare to her, all inextricably entwined with the horror of his father cutting off Draco's hand while Draco begged him to stop, and Hermione still felt sick about it. It had been like he was desperately trying to…Hermione didn't quite know _what_. To sink all his pain and hurt and remembered humiliation into her, and exorcise it from himself? Take it out on her? That was what it had felt like. She swallowed hard, still searching for the right thing to say, while he flicked worried grey eyes at her face every few seconds, his lips flattened with nervous tension. The thought of what had prompted Draco to, well, _jump_ her like that was more than a little unsettling.

"I didn't mean it to happen like that. I wanted the next time to be…better. And instead…_shit_. Instead it was _worse. _I'm sorry." Draco covered his eyes with his forearm and puffed out a short breath, cheeks still pink. Hermione slumped bonelessly against him, wrapping an arm over him, trying to be reassuring, face tilted up to his.

"It wasn't worse," she denied firmly, tapping a light, clumsy rhythm on his chest.

"Oh, lovely. The sex wasn't _worse_. What a fucking _relief_ to hear that. Maybe next time I can aim for blasé."

"That's not what I meant!"

"Then what _did_ you mean, Hermione?"

"It was…good." And it had been. It hadn't been perfect, but it _had_ been good, and even with the weight of what Draco had told her about his hand crushing down on them both, Hermione had come beneath him and around him, and for a moment she'd forgotten _everything_ in her mindless pleasure, and she was glad they had done it. Draco had needed it, she thought, because even now, embarrassed and ashamed of himself, that brittle, sharp fragility had faded away. Now he was just shirty with defensive mortification; Hermione thought that was a small improvement, at least. Draco shot her a dark look, peeking from beneath his arm and scowling at her.

"I cried on you," he grated out, and then hid his eyes behind his arm again, jaw clenched. "During _sex_."

"I think it was understandable, Draco. Considering. Don't – don't worry about it." Hermione tried to make it not a big deal, to gloss over it, but Draco just wouldn't bloody let up, determined to castigate himself with miserable embarrassment.

"You're not the one who just humiliated themself to the point where ritual fucking suicide sounds like a viable option."

"Oh don't be stupid," she snapped and poked him in the side, and he jerked and made an indignant noise. "Would you care if _I_ cried?"

"Well, _actually_, I would be somewhat concerned about that, yes."

"You know what I mean."

"It's different," he argued stubbornly. "You're a girl."

"Sexist git," she jabbed lightly, poking him again, in the side between two ribs, and Draco twitched and batted her hand away with a growl of annoyance.

"It was good," she insisted, meaning it, and he sighed, nodded fractionally. "Of course it was." He was dry and completely insincere, and Hermione huffed and pulled away from him, wriggled down his body – his thin pyjama trousers still halfway down his thighs where he had shoved them perfunctorily during the sex.

"What...?" he asked as Hermione slithered down him, and then she took his limp cock in her hand, wrapped her mouth around it, and sucked, and Draco's hand fisted in her hair and he drew a sharp breath.

"Wha…?" He couldn't even get out the whole word, Hermione thought with an inward smirk, and his voice wobbled and trailed off as she sucked hard and his cock began to stiffen. "You don't…" _have to do this_; Hermione knew he was going to finish, but the words were lost as she licked his cock from base to tip, dragging her tongue slowly up, ignoring him.

"I – It'll be better, next time," Draco said like he had when he'd first woken after the mission, his fingers all twined in her hair and voice thin as she sucked hard. Hermione nodded, swirled her tongue around the head of his cock and he stifled a rough sound that made her shiver all over, and his hips lifted off the bed ever so slightly.

"Tomorrow," he insisted tightly, strained and rasping as she took the whole length of him into her mouth, swallowing around him, "Tomorrow it'll be better, I promise."

Hermione nodded again, releasing his cock with a soft popping sound as the suction broke, and agreed, "Tomorrow, then." And then Hermione did her best to make him forget about everything except her mouth hot and wet around his cock, and, she thought from the needy, growling whimpers that slipped past his lips, that she succeeded.

# # #

_Author's Note: _Thoughts? Constructive feedback? I tried to make the dream sequence as horrible as possible – I hope I succeeded! :D I like gore and bad feels altogether too much, haha.

Also, I wanted to create a feeling of dreamy, off-kilter intimacy between Hermione and Draco throughout this chapter. They're alone, away from the Order in their own little world in this isolated safehouse, and I wanted to give it all a sense of…un-reality. I especially wanted that with the scene from Draco's POV, what with him being doped up and his perspective influencing the narrative. I guess the whole chapter has turned out to be about dreams, in a way.

I'm not sure what you all thought of Hermione's little explanation about Muggles and hospitals and catheters, oh my! I like writing about awkward reality, and I also like the chance to look at things we consider normal, through the eyes of someone who sees such things as utterly alien. I felt like it just sort of fit, and plus, it tickled my fancy :p

_Important: The Risk-Reward Ratio _will be coming to an end soon (being me, that 'soon' is relatively speaking). It's getting so immensely long, and a natural cut-off point is coming up in the plot, so I aim to finish the story in around another six to eight chapters.

However, the sequel, _The Just-World Fallacy_ will continue it :)

Picking up immediately after the end of _The Risk-Reward Ratio_, _The Just-World Fallacy_ will go right through to the end of the war, and beyond…

Because I can't send PMs to them…

Thank you to:

_Kat_, who, amazingly, retroactively went through and reviewed the entire story so far – you are wonderful!

_Iseult_, who deserves a medal for faithfully reviewing for forever, and always has such wonderful, encouraging feedback.

_Faye_, who made me fizz with happy feels.

_Risk_ who also gave me the proud happys (my head will swell!)

_ExCareer552_, whose positive feedback gave me smiles and yet more happy feels,

And,

_Guest_, thank you! And, um, you realise you don't _have_ to read the author's notes, right? :p

Next chapter… More smut, less crying, happiness all around!


	36. Shall I Stay

_Author's Notes:___I am sorry if I haven't responded to your review yet! I am being exceedingly slack at the moment. But know that I do appreciate your feedback immensely! And I _will_ reply…eventually. Promise! –ish…

I went for fluffy, and I think I got bittersweet…close enough! It suits the tone of the story better anyway, I think, but YMMV. At any rate, hopefully it satisfies tummies hungry for some happy :)

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Shall I Stay**_

Like a river flows surely to the sea

Darling so it goes

Some things are meant to be

So take my hand, and take my whole life too

'Cause I can't help falling in love with you

[Can't Help Falling In Love, Ingrid Michaelson]

# # #

Tomorrow it was indeed, better.

Draco kissed Hermione slow and thoroughly, his mouth hot and moving with unhurried, lazy pleasure against hers while she made little mewing sounds, and clutched at his arms. She was pulling him even closer, like she was trying to drag him into her, glue them together, and his cock pressed hard into her thigh. She was soft and warm, her curves squashed against him; both of them naked under the sheet, and it felt like coming home. She was safe haven, she was something Draco could lose himself in; the feel of her warm, firm thigh pressing against his cock, the way she squeaked when he grazed his knuckles over her nipple, the shiver that ran through her when he pulled away from their kiss and laved her throat at the place where her pulse thrummed against the creamy pale skin.

His own throat still ached and burnt, but he ignored the pain in favour of the pleasure, the gentle, slow sinking into each other. Third time's a charm, Draco thought and smirked as he latched his mouth over Hermione's nipple and sucked hard enough that her back arched up and her hands fluttered at his head, a panting moan dragged out of her. His name was on her lips, whimpered and gasped as she wound her fingers in his hair, and thrust her breast up against his mouth, and hearing her say _Draco_ like that made him feel hot all over with something he couldn't quite identify. His hand stroked along her flank as he flicked his tongue teasingly over her left nipple and made her whimper his name again.

He was glowing inside, hot and glowing and Hermione was _home_, and _his_, and it was all so damn stupid because Draco was fully fucking aware that he was going to lose her in the end, but right now that only made him want to drown himself in her while he still could. And Merlin, he knew that it would hurt so much when the time came; if it ever did, he told himself, thinking of how close he had been to bleeding out just days ago. His mouth stilled on her nipple, his fingers paused balanced delicately on the inside of her thigh, millimetres from her pussy. _This is stupid_, he thought, with a hint of helpless regret, because it was too late now. He couldn't end things again, not now; there was no bloody way – he was lost. And then Hermione bucked under him and whinged his name pleadingly, and with the movement Draco's fingers slipped off her thigh and onto that warm, wet flesh between her legs, and he forgot about everything but her.

It still wasn't the rose petals, romantic music, huge bed, and slow stripping off of silky lingerie that Draco had wanted to give Hermione, but it was slow and luxurious, and neither of them was drunk or furious or crying. So _that_ had to count for something. He lost himself in Hermione, making every moment count; cock so hard it was throbbing, and he felt desperate to bury it in her, but he was determined to make this good for her. Make it last. Make it fucking _perfect. _

Her breasts were warm and soft and firm all at the same time, and he cupped each one in his hand in turn, rubbing his thumb over her nipples, dropping whispering kisses on them, and she writhed under him and whined for more. His mouth latched over a nipple as his hand trailed back down over the smoothness of her stomach, down to the vee of soft fuzz at the junction of her thighs, and down between them, to the soft, wet folds of her pussy. Draco pinched her clit lightly, and Hermione's fingers dug into his skin and left trailing scratches down his back as she bucked up into him.

She was eager and greedy, and her pussy seized around his fingers as he pushed them into her, two of them, curling and thrusting, and Merlin she was tight and so fucking hot, and if Draco wasn't careful he was going to be finished before he even got started. Draco's breath was shallow and ragged, matching hers, and he was still faintly dizzy from blood loss, and his tongue rasped over one nipple and made Hermione twitch and moan his name. His name, and it was _perfect_. She was flushed and her eyes were slitted on him, lips parted as she whimpered through them, hips arching up as he thrust his fingers, and Draco felt like he was going to explode, watching her. Watching her soak up every touch, every curl of his fingers, every sucking kiss he laid on her hot skin, each one bringing his mouth closer and closer to where he knew she wanted it. Merlin, he wanted to fuck her.

Hermione was trembling, breath jerking in sharply, as Draco brought his mouth to her clit and blew on it softly, darted his tongue out and lapped feather light over the small nub.

"Oh god Draco…" Hermione's fingers scraped over his scalp, fisted in his hair almost painfully, her thighs bracketed his head, muscles quivering with desperate want. Draco smirked. He slithered his tongue slow and light over her clit, and she shivered all over, and a strangled moan broke from her lips as she pushed her hips up. His tongue danced down, sliding over wet folds teasingly, and his cock was rock hard against the mattress as she mewled; Hermione Granger flushed and debauched on the bed, begging him for more. Shit, Draco loved this more than anything else: seeing Hermione lose all composure, frantic with need and greedy want. Wanting _him_, wanting what _he_ could do to her.

"_Please,_" she begged breathlessly, pushing her hips up again, clamping her thighs around Draco's head, forgetful of his wounded state, and he didn't remind her. He didn't want to ruin the moment; he was enjoying it too fucking much. "_Please_, Draco, I – I want your – I want to…" She was wriggling under him, pout shaping her mouth, eyes screwed tightly shut. Draco relented, and swept his tongue up to her clit and swirled firmly over it, and her pussy clenched again like magic, her hands tugged sharply at his hair. Hermione tasted sweet and tangy on his tongue, and he closed his lips over her clit and sucked hard, made her squeak and him grin.

When Hermione came, she came hard around Draco's fingers; her back arched and arms outflung, hands dragging at the sheets. She came with Draco's mouth on her clit, and his name on her lips, followed by a gasping, "_Fuck_. Oh _Merlin_, oh my _goddd…_" Her thighs nearly cracked his bloody skull open, and her back arched up off the bed, a long, shuddering moan dragged out of her as her pussy seized and clamped around his fingers, and Merlin, Draco wished it was his dick inside her. He smirked up at Hermione as she opened her eyes and blinked at him dazedly, and then ducked his head and lapped at her clit one last time, licked his lips theatrically. She blushed and covered her eyes with one hand, grinning herself, her breasts going up and down in an incredibly mesmerising fashion as she laughed silently.

Draco's jaw ached and his throat hurt like shit, and Hermione stifled her giggles and grabbed at his arms, pulling him up her body. He scrambled willingly, her skin soft and warm on his, and then her flushed face was just beneath his, and she was kissing him thoroughly, tongue delving eager into Draco's mouth and he wondered if she could taste herself. The thought made both his chest and his balls squeeze tight with arousal for a moment. And then Draco made a mumbling moaning sound as Hermione took hold of his hand and sucked his fingers slowly clean, tongue wrapping and gliding around each digit, and his cock twitched against her thigh. Fuck, that was so hot. Draco's teeth indented his lip, and he looked into her eyes; all glazed and dazed and satisfied, and _glowing_ on him, and he kissed her softly.

She made a little murmuring sound and her fingers twisted up through his hair, slid down over his shoulders and scraped down his arms, over his back. Her legs were splayed and they came up, one at a time, wrapping round his hips. And then his dick was nestled against the sopping slick wetness of her pussy, and their eyes were still glued together, and Hermione said, "Please," in a little whisper, and Draco pushed into her gladly. She clung to him, fingers hard on his shoulders, and her pussy was wet and hot as he sank in, and _Merlin_, he bit his lip hard, concentrating, trying not to come then and there. That would be entirely too humiliating.

But he didn't, and it was only when Hermione came for the second time with her pussy twitching deliciously around his dick that Draco finally came, with a gasping, stifled groan, his head sinking to her breast as his hips thrust hard into her, burying himself deep inside her as a shudder of release ran through him. It was a spark of raw pleasure and ecstasy that grew and grew, and convulsed and exploded into something that ripped through him and wrung him out, leaving him gasping and so fucking sated. It was completion and bliss, and her hands were on his cheeks and his hair and his shoulders, and her legs were locked around his hips, tying them together.

And _fuck_ it was like home and perfection, and _Hermione_, because that was what she was to him, and everything washed away but her. He was anchored to her, tied to her, and she was the only person in the world that Draco would do absolutely anything for. It hit him like a brick to the face. Shit, he loved her and he couldn't stop; he _wouldn't _stop. It would be like trying to force himself to cut off his other hand. And yet it wouldn't last. Sooner or later, it would all come to an end, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. That hurt. That hurt like nothing else.

In that maelstrom wash of blinding bliss and sudden, jolting truth, Draco saw Azkaban, dark and bleak on the insides of his eyelids. And he wanted to run away. For the briefest period of time, as he went limp on Hermione, face buried in her breast, cock still deep inside her, Draco wanted to take Hermione and run. Damn the war, damn the Order, damn his fucking family, and doing the right thing. Forget it all; go away, somewhere far, far away. Brazil, or New Zealand, or South Africa. Away from war and death and trials, and years in prison without her stretching out in front of him like a fucking prophecy. Except Hermione was a noble bloody Gryffindor, and Draco would follow her anywhere – even if she led him into Azkaban and slammed the door on him herself.

"I love you," he gasped, voice filled with desperation, eyes sharp and hard on her face and burning with it, and she looked at him with puzzled-happy brown eyes, not understanding the urgency, the grinding hurt in his voice. And she never would understand, never would know exactly what she had cost him, and Draco didn't want her to know.

With her hand soft on his cheek, she smiled blissfully, murmured, "I love you too." There was a hint of a question there as she caught the way he looked at her, the way he spoke, but he left it unanswered and Hermione didn't ask; for once, she seemed content to let secrets lie and leave her curiosity unsated. Although the good fucking he'd given her probably had more to do with her disinterest than any decision to respect Draco's privacy; she was languorous and heavy-eyed, much as he was, and they didn't talk at all for a long, languid time.

Draco tried not to think; enjoying the way Hermione curled into him like a comma, left arm and leg draping limply over him, her hair fallen over her face, the ends of it tickling his chest and shoulder. He floated in the afterglow, the moments of peace allotted to them – before long they'd be back at Godric's Hollow and these few precious moments would be gone. But everything was right with the world, for a while at least, and Draco would take what he could get. When Hermione finally spoke and broke the silence her voice was muffled against his chest, her breath a hot whisper on his skin, and he was drifting peacefully in half-sleep.

"Hmm?" Draco asked drowsily, trying to blink himself into wakefulness.

"I said; I'm not looking forward to going back to Godric's."

"Mm. Me neither. Getting my throat slit is worth the privacy it's afforded us," Draco agreed, fingers trailing up and down Hermione's spine, thinking of his dank cellar shared with the Bulgarians, and always being interrupted by Potter, the nosey little fucker. It was far more pleasant here, in this little Healer's room, far removed from everything that always pressed inexorably in on them. Here, the war, his father, his mother – none of it had to exist, if they just didn't think about it.

"No. It's most certainly _not_," Hermione snapped vehemently, and then sighed. "I'm not looking forward to explaining…_us_ to the Order. The cat is most definitely out of the bag now, and I don't want to have to deal with all the…disapproval," she clarified into his chest, and Draco snorted and regretted it, when it created a little flame of pain that flared to brief life in his wound.

"Well, weeping over my body while you proclaimed your love for me _was_ rather damning evidence, I imagine," he said dryly, sliding his fingers through Hermione's hair and dragging it gently away from her face. Hermione made a grumpy noise and Draco smirked. Guess what I know, that you don't, he thought smugly, and proceeded to tell her, still smirking to himself.

"But I don't think you need to expect having to make lengthy explanations – everybody but the Weas – _Weasley_, has known for weeks."

"_What?_" came an indignant shriek, and Draco winced at the assault on his ears. Hermione shoved herself upright, eyes as wild as her hair, voice turning dangerously low and calm, "What do you _mean_, they've known for weeks?"

"We apparently weren't as discreet as we thought we were. Your Gryffindor blundering must be infecting me; I am a disgrace to the Slytherin name. You know, if I had been sneaking around with another Slytherin, no one would ever have suspected a thing," Draco said, a smile playing about his lips as he leaned comfortably back on his pillows and drank Hermione in. This was when she was at her most gorgeous, he decided; when she was all angrily flushed cheeks and furiously sparking eyes, dark brows drawn together, radiating an air of utterly indignant affront.

Like a cat that had been dumped in a bathtub, Draco thought and grinned at her suddenly and grabbed her arm, yanking her down to him inelegantly and silencing her vocal indignation with a hard kiss. Hermione shoved at him at first, all bristling annoyance, and then gave up on her irritation with a little moan that shivered down his spine as she melted into him, kissing him back with a thoroughness that left Draco hard and aching for more. And then she jerked away and thumped him gently on the arm.

"Don't do that, you git!"

"Do what?" he asked, fluttering his eyelashes at her with faux-innocence as he wiped his damp lips with his thumb, and settled back on the pillows with a slightly frustrated sigh.

"Distract me," Hermione huffed, sitting up cross-legged with her knees jabbing into his thigh and side respectively. She dragged the blankets up over her lap and scowled at him.

"You _let_ yourself be distracted," Draco pointed out amusedly; and now she was letting herself be distracted by an argument about being distracted. She glared at him harder, eyebrows all scrunched, a deep crease slashing between them.

"So, you knew that everybody knew, and you just…decided not to tell me that very important fact? _Why_, exactly?"

Draco shifted uncomfortably. "We, ah, weren't exactly…speaking…at the time, Hermione. Or at least…them knowing didn't seem particularly relevant, because there wasn't anything _to_ know…"

"Oh." She looked down at her hands, nibbling on her lip and looking small and forlorn.

"Hermione." Draco wished he hadn't said anything, now, and had just left her to worry. It wasn't easy to think of the mess they had made. That _he_ had made, mostly, if he was honest.

"Mm," she acknowledged quietly, still staring at her hands, all twined together in her lap. She brought one up to her mouth, chewed nervously on her thumbnail, still avoiding his eyes.

"Hermione…" Draco repeated, reaching out and tugging her hand from her mouth, tucking it inside his and squeezing gently. She took a deep breath and looked up at him, managed a smile.

"Sorry. I know."

"You shouldn't be apologising, Hermione. It was me. My stupid fucking fault; all of it. I'm – I'm sorry."

"_Oh_. Yes, no, _that_ was _definitely_ your fault," she said decidedly, and her smile this time was genuine and seasoned with amusement at Draco's humph of offence. She twisted her hand around in his and locked their fingers together. "So. They all knew, hm?"

"Except Weasley, apparently. Well, almost certainly, seeing as he didn't attempt to murder me in my sleep."

"Attempt?"

"Yes. There's no way a Weasley would be able to best a Malfoy, Hermione. At least, not _that_ Weasley, not even halfway competent as he is now." He scowled, thinking of his father; an unwelcome thought intruding on the moment. "And not this particular Malfoy."

"Hah! You called him halfway competent! Coming from you, that's a practically a compliment. And I'm telling him!"

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, wouldn't I?" she asked wickedly, eyes sparkling as she taunted him, and Draco growled under his breath and pulled Hermione down to him, struggled playfully with her for a moment before he flipped her onto her back – he suspected that she let him, because his strength hadn't exactly come back yet, and Hermione was no lightweight; she could hold her own. But that didn't matter, because however it happened, she was lying beneath him and he was triumphant on top.

"And what are you going to do now?"

"I'm going to finger you until you're about to come – and then I'm going to stop," Draco said crudely, caught up in Hermione's gleeful mood. Her mouth made and 'o', and she pinked, chest heaving with a sharp breath. "I'll leave you right on the _brink_. And if you don't agree to never tell, I'll do it again, and again, and again. And eventually you'll be so _desperate_ for me to let you come, you'll do _anything_ to come, let alone something as minor as promising to never tell Weasley I called him halfway competent. And then – and _then_, I'll make you come so fucking hard you'll forget your own name."

"Oh," Hermione breathed shakily, eyes wide and round on his face, and Draco smirked, feeling flickers of the old arrogant little sod he used to be – except without the bonus bigotry – as Hermione wriggled with breathless, hopeful anticipation under him.

"You'll remember my name, of course; you'll be screaming it."

# # #

"I love you."

Hermione smiled to herself at the earnestness in Draco's voice, and snuggled a little closer back against him, the little spoon to his angular, bony one. He was still too thin, after all that time spent skipping meals and replacing them with alcohol. Maybe it was time to start him on something other than broth now, but the damage to his throat really had been extensive; more than he realised, she thought. And even though it was nearly healed, Sylvan thought it was best to be cautious. So broth it had been, much to Draco's chagrin. She blinked and cleared her sleepy head, realising that Draco was waiting quietly for her to respond, breathing slow and warm into her hair. His arm had grown stiff around her, and Hermione wondered at how he could be insecure after everything that had happened. He should know that she loved him.

But she said quietly anyway, "I love you too. You know that."

"I like hearing it," he said, and squashed her against him with his arm, kissing her head and sighing softly, the sound positively overflowing with contentment.

"Losing your edge, Draco? I thought you were mister cold and distant self-control?" Hermione teased, remembering how he had been at school, which felt like so long, long ago now. The way Draco had looked back then; all perfectly coiffed hair and hard, arrogant features set above his too-pointed chin, which somehow didn't seem so pointy anymore. Except for when he jabbed her with it, which he was doing now; head tucked down beside hers, so that said pointed chin dug into Hermione's shoulder.

"Only when showing my feelings will end up with me getting ridiculed by my peers, or, alternatively, murdered by the Dark…you-know-who. I have nothing against showing feelings when they're appropriate; as you should well know."

"You're just a big cuddly teddy bear, aren't you?"

"I mostly certainly am _not_."

"You are so. You melt into a puddle of goo every single time I say it. _I love you._" Hermione smiled as he let out another happy little sigh and tried to cuddle her even closer, mostly just succeeding in squashing the breath out of her. "See? You're a teddy bear – that likes to crush your lovers," she gasped, and Draco loosened his grip apologising, and Hermione got all wrapped up in thoughts of just how adorable he was when he did that. There was nothing quite so unbelievable and deeping satisfying as Draco Malfoy apologising to her.

"I'll have you know, that I am dark and dangerous, and radiate an aura of irresistible mystery," he said very seriously, and then growled in her ear, unusually playful tonight. Except it ended up not being so playful after all, because it tickled and the _sound_ of it rather unexpectedly made thrills of desire run down Hermione's spine and her muscles tighten with anticipation. Her breath shivered out of her in a barely audible, completely wanton, whimper.

"Oh, you like that do you?" Draco asked archly, and Hermione didn't have to see; she could _hear_ he was smirking, and a flicker of annoyance ran through her as she blushed embarrassedly. And then it all dissipated when he growled again, fingers playing up and down her side, pleasantly distracting. It was a low, rolling sound that melted Hermione's bones, and then his tongue swept teasingly over the shell of her ear and she jolted and let out another whimper despite herself.

"Maybe…" she allowed faintly as Draco nibbled at her ear lobe, hot breath whispering maddeningly on her skin, and teeth and tongue sending little sparks of electricity right through her. Oh, but she _did_ like it. And if he growled like that again, Hermione was going to melt into a puddle of goo herself. And of course, Draco did it again and this time she moaned shamelessly, and shifted away from him, rolling onto her back and letting her thighs fall apart. She could see him clearly in the glow of the half-moon; hair shining pale and bright in a silvery beam of it, eyes glinting like a mirror of the moonlight, that kissable mouth shaped into a smug smirk.

"Bears growl, you know," she said with mischievous pointedness, as they both arranged themselves so that Draco's hand was free to explore her; his missing hand didn't impact on their intimacy enormously, but it did require a few workarounds. He laughed quietly at her as his hand swept slowly up the inside of her naked leg, from calf to thigh.

"Do bears also fuck you 'til you scream? Because if that's the case, I may have a problem with that," he said, and then dipped his mouth to her ear, an edge to his voice as he whispered teasingly rough, like he was testing whether she liked it or not; "I don't like to share, Hermione." Draco's hand dipped between her thighs as he spoke, and his fingers slid along her exquisitely sensitive, slick folds, finding her clit and twirling idly over it. The words and his touch sent a bolt of lightning heat straight to Hermione's core, and she shut her eyes and hummed with anticipation, her hands drifting to her breasts, fingers bumping over her nipples, pinching them lightly and sending little tingles through her.

"I'm not at all interested in dalliances with the genus _ursus_, so the only bear that's done _that_ is you, Draco," she murmured, mind only half on her words as his migrating fingers slid inside her, moving rhythmically in and out and making her thighs tremble and her womb clench, her body arch up into his hand.

"I'm not a damn bear! Bears are…lumbering and graceless and foolish. And _I _am not any of those things," Draco protested, fingers slipping out of her and resting on her thigh, slick and damp with the evidence of her arousal. Hermione sighed irritably at the interruption to what she had hoped was going to be a descent into the quiet, shuddering intimacy that was middle-of-the-night sex. She opened her eyes, letting her hands drop from her breasts, gazing up at Draco and feeling love that welled up like a fount inside her. He was propped on one elbow beside her, looking down at her with a little crease between his eyes as he frowned thoughtfully, the only sign that he was desperately aroused the raging hard on jabbing into Hermione's leg. His fingers damply traced the inside of her thigh, tantalisingly close to where she wanted him to be.

"I'm…if I was any sort of bloody animal, then I would be a snake, being Slytherin and all. Or possibly a dragon. What with the name." And then Draco raised an eyebrow, gave her breasts a pointed look, and added, "And I didn't say stop."

# # #

"Look what I've got," Hermione announced, producing a large square box from her trunk with a flourish. Draco groaned, but he was smiling despite himself. He'd been doing that so often in the past few days – smiling, that was – that he'd accused Hermione of deviously slipping a potion in his food. Which incidentally was still restricted to a steady diet of fucking _broth_. Broth for breakfast, broth for lunch, broth for dinner… Draco was surprised it wasn't leaking out his bloody ears. Hermione and Sylvan insisted it was healthsome and necessary, and Draco insisted that it was barely palatable muck, and that furthermore he was _not_ an infant, and could manage to chew perfectly well, thank you very fucking much. They had given him identical condescending looks, and Hermione had patted him on the hand.

Merlin, she was so fucking irritating sometimes.

It was _nice_.

Like how things were before Draco fucked it all up, only _better_.

Hermione waved the box in Draco's face to grab his attention and he jolted back with a few choice words, and instinctively snatched it from her before she accidentally clocked him in the face. "Scrabble," he said with distaste. "Of course. You remembered the bloody Scrabble. You didn't bring a drop of booze, but you did remember _this_."

Hermione smiled at him, the expression ridiculously infectious and playful. "Of _course_. And," she added blithely, "Alcohol is not good for you, and you've been drinking entirely too much, so…" She let it trail off, but she didn't have to finish her sentence. Draco knew what she was going to say. _…Best to leave it. We don't want you getting addicted, now, do we?_ And damnit, she was right; he already was half-addicted, if such a thing was possible. Every-so-often the gnawing need for a drink would spring to life in the back of his brain, and he had to beat it into submission, mostly with the entirely pleasant technique of screwing Hermione silly as often as his still-weak body would let him.

"So let me get this straight – while I was over here, quite possibly dying, you were back at Godric's Hollow, fussing with boring Muggle board games? Nice to know you have your priorities straight." It was meant to be a light-hearted jab; well, maybe a little prompted by his annoyance at the way she had shut down his mention of a drink like that, but… Draco felt a rush of guilt as Hermione's smile fell away and her eyes filled with tears.

"No, actually," she said in brittle tones, snatching the stupid damned game back from Draco's hand. "Actually, when I went back to Godric's, I was falling apart, convinced you were dead already, and, and…" She sniffled and wiped at her cheeks and Draco felt like the most enormous prat in existence. He stepped toward her, hand held out, but she retreated as he advanced, still babbling tearfully.

"And it was bad enough I'd made an utter fool of myself at Ballater, so I went down to the cellar and sobbed my eyes out on your bed." She drew shaky breath. "It smelt like you. You and me. And I sat on your bed and hugged your _stupid_ pillow and cried my eyes out. And then I saw the Scrabblejust _sitting_ there, and I thought that you couldn't be dead, you _couldn't_, and even – even if you were, I had to be…to be there. I –"

Hermione was in floods of tears now, gasping the words out between snotty, wracking sobs, and Draco decisively lunged forward and hooked his maimed arm around her waist before she could retreat. She was stiff and shivering as her drew her against him. "I wanted to be there, even if you _were_ already dead, to, to – oh, I don't _know!_ Say goodbye, I – I suppose. And I took the bloody game because the last thing you'd used it for was to spell out my name, and I thought…I don't know what I thought. I don't think I was really thinking at all."

Draco put his hand to the back of Hermione's head, and tucked her face against his chest, kissed the top of her head gently. She was still sobbing, and he winced inwardly, still feeling like a total arsehole for triggering this meltdown. "Stop crying," he ordered, trying to be brisk and matter-of-fact, and hopefully snap her out of this. "Stop crying, Hermione. I'm not bloody dead, I'm perfectly fine – despite that completely unpalatable shit you call _broth_ that you and the damned Healer are determined to poison me with. Or drown me in."

Hermione snorted a half-laugh, half-sob into Draco's chest, and he wrinkled his nose in mild disgust as he felt slimy dampness on his skin where her face was buried. "And I am _not_ a handkerchief."

She huffed a shaky laugh and pulled away a little, wiping her nose on her sleeve and sniffing hard. "Sorry."

The hard square of the Scrabble box was digging into his side, and Draco tried to wipe at Hermione's cheeks with his thumb, carefully avoiding the snotty bits, and gave up. "You need a hanky."

She nodded, sniffing and leaning against him again, her arms wrapping around his waist pleasantly; the game now jabbing his spine most _un_pleasantly. "Do you want to play, then?" he asked, resting his chin on her head, and thinking about how odd this was. Years and years of bitter hatred lay behind them, and not so long ago, relatively speaking, Draco would have been overjoyed to make Hermione cry like this. And now he was willingly offering himself up like a lamb to the slaughter to play this silly damned _boring_ Muggle game, so that Hermione could soundly beat him at it and be happy. She nodded again, hugging him tightly, and wetly kissing his chest.

Neither of them made any move to set up the game though; Hermione's arms stayed tight around him, and Draco's chin rested still on her head, and he breathed in the scent of her shampoo as he stared at the wall, and didn't see it.

Instead he saw the years, stretching out behind them and ahead of them, and felt a pang of pain.

# # #

He was better, and not just in terms of his wound having almost totally healed, the last lingering traces of Dark magic nearly gone; but Draco was _better_. Hermione had spent nearly every minute of the last four days glued to Draco's side, and he was more like his old self than he had been since – since he'd first turned up on the doorstep with Remus and his mother, resentful, cowed and desperate. It felt like a lifetime ago that she had nearly fainted at the sight of him, a panic attack gripping her, sitting at the dining room table with Mrs Weasley pressing firewhiskey on her while she stared at Draco's blond head and tried not to shatter into little pieces on the dining room floor. And now here they were; improbably together and in a little private sea of happiness that lapped and frothed at Hermione, and made little bubbles of bliss in her chest.

Sunlight shone in through the windows and washed over her exposed skin, and Hermione smiled happily, eyes shut, the sun making a warm red glow behind her eyelids. Her book was open spine up on her stomach; reading about advanced potions research techniques placed a very distant second to sunbathing lazily on Draco's bed next to him. Something trailed firm and ticklish down the sole of her left foot and Hermione mumbled an unintelligible protest, jerked her foot in reflex.

"Don't," she grumped and flung her arm over her eyes, scowling. And then it was quiet, drowsy sun-warmth and soft bed, and Draco's side pressed firm against her. She smiled, drifting happy and contented. The two of them together in the sun, with nothing to worry about, and nothing to do, except whatever they wanted. For a little while, just a little while. And it was so wonderfully perfect. And then something tickled the sole of her foot again, and something else nudged the side of her head. Hermione frowned, grumbling some more and wrapped her hand around Draco's ankle, pushing his foot away from her face, jerked her foot away from his tickling hand.

"I feel that top and tailing was a bad decision, on my part. Slytherins can't be trusted," she said lazily, still smiling, and snuffling out a laugh as Draco seized her foot in his hand, and lacking the needed other hand to tickle it, licked it instead. Or she assumed that was what he had done, because soft, startlingly _wet_ heat rasped over her sensitive instep and provoked a giggle from her. Hermione tried half-heartedly to tug her foot away, but the sun had penetrated into her muscles and bones and made them heavy and languid.

"Don't do that!" she protested, craning her head up to squint against the sun at Draco, catching a glimpse of hair that was nearly white in the sun, and grey eyes that were light and clear with amusement, pointed features softened with peaceful relaxation. She flopped back with an oomph and snorted again as the rasping, wet warmth moved over her foot and enclosed her big toe, sucked hard. It _tickled _and _tingled_, the sensation shooting straight up her leg and into her spine, and Hermione shook with huffing laughter, foot jerking slightly in an instinctive attempt to escape the strange sensations.

"You don't know where my feet have been!" she tried through her quiet, shaking laughter, and the sucking paused, cold air hit her toe as Draco removed his mouth, her foot still held fast in his hand.

"I do, in point of fact. And these are the cleanest, pinkest toes I've ever had the pleasure of sucking on," he answered, a spark of teasing mischief in his voice, and Hermione's smile spread until it was a grin that nearly split her face, laughter subsiding. It was true that her feet were clean enough to eat a meal off, if Draco so desired; she'd had a shower a little over an hour ago. Her hair, fanned out over the bed, was proof of that – not having bothered with a drying spell, it was damp still, drying crumpled and curling in the sun. Hermione looked back down the bed at Draco, who was twiddling with her digits with a look of amused absorption.

"Suck on a lot of toes, Draco?"

"A veritable buffet of toes. Oh, so many toes…Slytherins, Ravenclaws, even the odd Hufflepuff one – so when I say these are the prettiest toes I've ever sucked upon, I speak from vast experience."

"No Gryffindor toes?" Hermione queried, cheeks beginning to hurt from her ridiculous grin, and Draco bit her big toe lightly, shook his head with her toe still clamped in his mouth like a dog, and then delicately released it.

"Not a one, until now. Feel special, Hermione?"

"Oh, exceedingly." Hermione's hand was still wrapped around Draco's bony ankle, and she stroked it light and teasing, finding satisfaction in the way he jerked, the startled noise he made. Two could play at this game, and Hermione knew Draco was just as ticklish as she was.

"You haven't stopped smiling ever since you put that book down," Draco observed, and Hermione struggled so she was propped up on her elbows.

"Mm, I haven't, have I?" she replied, deliberately not answering his implied question, just to irritate him. But Draco was lazing on his stack of pillows without a trace of annoyance, fingers playing over her toes as though they were piano keys. He looked younger, relaxed and lazy and boyish with it, which had the unfortunate effect of making his Dark Mark stand out all the more every time he moved his arm and flashed Hermione a glimpse of it. It looked so dreadfully wrong on Draco's skin on this beautiful day with the sun streaming in the windows, with his grey eyes happy, and her limbs all lazy and heart lub-dubbing with contented steadiness.

If Hermione didn't look at it, just looked at Draco's face, with those dark-lashed eyes and that full mouth perfectly designed for an array of smirks, she could almost pretend that the Mark wasn't there. That this was a different time, a different place – a world in which Voldemort had never come back, and they were still together, but without the negative history and the scars and the…Hermione sucked in a sharp breath and her smile wavered for a brief moment.

"Why?"

It took Hermione a second to realise what Draco was asking about, and then her smile steadied and she shrugged, crawling slowly up the bed and flopping down beside him. She curled onto her side, fingers dancing up from his stomach to his sternum.

"Because it's a good day," she said simply, and a shadow passed over Draco's clear grey eyes, and then he was smiling back at her as if that shadow had never been there.

"It is," he agreed, just as simply.

"It's like –" Hermione hesitated, not wanting to risk breaking the spell they seemed to be under, but now the thought of what this moment could be – except it _couldn't_ – was rattling in her head, wanting to get out, and if she couldn't share her thoughts with Draco, then… "It's like the war was all just a bad dream, that none of it was real – that this, _us_, is what's really real."

Hermione shook her head; that didn't sound right at all. It sounded so stupid and all wrong somehow when she tried to explain aloud what she was thinking, and she said so. But Draco just shifted to face her, and kissed her full on the mouth, an aching tenderness in the way his lips pressed on hers.

"We are real. _This_ is real." Draco had barely drawn back from her mouth, so that his lips brushed against hers as he spoke, her nose nuzzled alongside his, and Hermione stared into his eyes, drowning herself in what she read in them.

"And the war," Draco continued, hesitantly, and then paused, drew breath. His eyes were unnaturally bright and somehow pleading, and Hermione instinctively brought her hand up to cradle the curve of his cheek, the faintest sandpaper of stubble whispering against her palm.

"The war?" Hermione prompted Draco softly, as she looked into his eyes and felt her heart inexplicably swell and ache in her chest as he asked in a small voice,

"We can pretend, for a little while…can't we?" There was a quiet urgency threading beneath Draco's low words, and Hermione's thumb brushed over the jut of his cheekbone, her mouth pressing firmly to his. Warm and real, and something inside her floated free, taking her with it; pretending. Draco stilled for a moment when her lips met his, and then he gave a little sigh and parted his lips to her, his arm – the maimed arm – drawing her nearer.

And for a moment, with Draco's lips moving against her lips so softly and so warm, and his tongue hot and wet, skimming over hers and sending delicious heat trickling into her core… For a moment, Hermione could pretend that it was another time, another place, and that Draco's hand pressed into her back as they kissed, fingertips clutching and pulling her closer to him.

# # #

He had spent one day in delirium, one unwell but contented, another one mostly well and very happy, and the next two in total bliss. Today, if the trend had continued, Draco should have achieved nirvana, or ascended to heaven itself, but instead he found himself feeling restless. It was ridiculous. He had spent the past six days being doted on hand and foot, fucked silly, and generally luxuriating in a state of happiness that was more perfect than anything he had felt in a very, very long time; he should never want to leave this place. And a part of him _didn't_ want to ever leave.

But as much as they had pretended so well, while playing Scrabble, and shagging, and lazing around together, well – the war was still out there, waiting for them. Draco couldn't just forget about it, as much as he wanted to. It wasn't going to go away, just because they ignored it.

And Pansy was off at Godric's or wherever, and Draco supposed she'd had her abortion, and now she would be all alone feeling miserable in a houseful of people who didn't like her in the least, to put it mildly. She was his friend, and when she had teased Draco about being completely selfish she had been wrong; he worried about her. Especially today; all of a sudden, Draco didn't know why, but he couldn't get her off his mind. He knew all too well what it was like to be thrown on someone's mercy, alone and disliked, and unlike him, Pansy didn't _have_ to go through it alone. He could be there for her if he wanted to be, and he had been a right git to just leave her to the Order's tender bloody mercies for six whole days.

Draco shifted as he realised his toes were going dead and resettled Hermione, who was nestled between his thighs; her back against this chest, her legs bracketed by his, and that horridly dry potions book open on her lap. He'd read over her shoulder for a while, and it had nearly put him to sleep. She was nodding off herself; every so often her head would thud back against his chest, and then she would jolt upright again and turn a page, even though Draco knew full well she wasn't really reading it. It was like she had to appear productive all the time; shades of the old swot lingering in her, despite the war. It was rather adorable, actually. He didn't blame her for nodding off – it was lovely here, with the window ajar and a breeze coming through, the sun soaking into them both. It was weather made for lying around and dozing the hours away.

It was rather strange, being here still though. It had been nearly a week, and Draco had been perfectly bloody fine for the last four days and in no need of being at a special Healers. Why the hell _were_ they still here? If he'd had any reason to be, Draco would have been suspicious. But he didn't have any reason to be, did he? His hand slid up and down Hermione's bare arm, and goosebumps rose in the wake of his touch, and she hummed happily, head resting back on his chest, fitting nicely beneath his chin. He suspected that she had finagled the extra days out of Potter or Lupin, so that the two of them could have a chance to sort things out between them.

Draco didn't know if they had really sorted things out or not; they were lost in each other, wrapped up in each other, and everything between them was right and easy and perfect…except they hadn't spoken of the future once. It was the troll in the room that they were both intent on ignoring, pretending it wasn't there. They were living in the moment, which was fine and good by him, except it didn't really solve anything. Not that they had any other options; this was not a problem they could solve, just a situation they had to bear no matter how much it would hurt. That was the price they had chosen to pay.

Draco sighed and Hermione twisted her head around awkwardly, kissed his shoulder and wiggled against him, like a human comfort blanket draped over his chest, her body heat seeping through his shirt and warming his skin. Neither of them said a word. Over the past six days there had been too many sighs, and too-long pauses, half-spoken sentences that the speaker thought better of. For the most part, they were ignored, not addressed except by a kiss designed to distract, or perhaps a faux-bright change in topic – it was safer that way. Draco curled one of her hands up in his, her fingers warm and strong in his, and he could _feel_ the weight of reality begin to creep back onto his shoulders as thoughts of Pansy stripped away the fragile barriers he and Hermione had built up between them and the world.

"When do we have to go back to Godric's?"

"Harry fire-called me this morning, before you woke up. He said we have to be back tomorrow; the Order is going to start planning the mission to get the Muggle things we need in order to raid Gringotts," Hermione said quietly, as if she'd been expecting him to ask; expecting and half dreading.

"Do you know how Pansy is?"

There was an infinitesimal pause, and then she said, "I don't know. I didn't ask. I'm – sorry. But I'm sure if there was something wrong, Harry would've told me."

"She's my friend, Hermione, not anything…else."

"Your ex-girlfriend," Hermione corrected without rancour, but with something else, something dangerous skimming beneath the surface. Draco bit his lip and held Hermione closer, pressing his cheek to the side of her head and getting hair in his mouth.

"Pansy and I…we were convenient. Expected. Good friends, in as much as a Malfoy could be allowed the intimacy of a 'friend'. I'm fond of Pansy, and I care about her, but I never loved her. Not like…" He smiled. "Not like how I love you; irritating, know-it-all, nosey Muggleborn that you are."

"Arrogant, snobbish, inbred git."

"Boring, goody-good teacher's pet."

"Hah, teacher's pet! My god, Draco. Pot, meet kettle."

"What? I was _not_."

"Oh, so Snape just gave you good marks out of the kindness of his greasy, black, heart?"

Draco frowned, conceding, "Point," and just knew that Hermione was grinning insufferably as she made a satisfied sound and settled back against him. Merlin, she was _heavy_. He didn't tell _her_ that though; Draco was not stupid, and he rather enjoyed not being shrieked at.

"So, we're going back tomorrow?" he said instead, and Hermione nodded.

"Back to the real world," she said heavily, and heaved a sigh, her fingers stroking lightly over his palm.

Draco felt the descending weight of reality settle fully down onto his shoulders, and suddenly it seemed just slightly more difficult to breath. The day seemed duller, and he felt suddenly, inexplicably, tired.

"Yeah," he said wearily, closing his eyes and burying his face in Hermione's hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo. "Back to the real world."

# # #

"Thank you, Sylvan." Hermione smiled at the man, her small trunk floating by her side as she stood in the light streaming through the kitchen door. Draco stood still and silent, leaning against the wall by the door, examining his nails as she said goodbye to the Healer. He had already said a brusque thank you, and shook the man's hand, and suffered through Sylvan's warnings about keeping up with the scar liniment applications, and being careful not to strain his voice and all that other rot.

"You're very welcome, Miss Granger. Just doing my job. I'm only glad I could repair the damage to Mr Malfoy's throat," Sylvan said cheerfully.

"Still…" Hermione prevaricated, being ever so polite and Draco set his jaw. If they were going to leave, they should just bloody well do it, not dither about and drag things out. He scowled at his roughly clipped nails, half-dreading going back to Godric's, but at the same time looking forward to seeing Pansy, and not wanting to stay in limbo here any longer. Draco felt like the epitome of the old adage of being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

"It's nice to be appreciated," Sylvan said in that happy, ridiculously serene tone he seemed to always use – no matter how much Draco had sworn at him when he was still delirious – and Draco lost patience. He shoved himself off from the wall and stalked outside, ignoring Hermione's clutch at his shirtsleeve as he brushed past her.

Draco didn't want to fucking well go back to Godric's and the fucking war. He didn't _want _to. He walked faster. Get it over with. It was the waiting that was the worst. The insufferable bloody _limbo_. It grated on him, rubbing him raw. He hadn't expected that.

Hermione caught up with him halfway across the lawn, making for the portkey on the edge of the safehouse wards. She was out-of-breath and flushed with annoyance, and he glanced briefly back at her approach. She frowned at him as she jogged towards him, trunk bobbing at her side as though, it too, was running instead of floating three feet off the ground.

"Wait up!" Hermione called breathlessly as Draco reached the tarnished teapot portkey sitting on a crumbling stone wall, and he stopped in his tracks, back and shoulders rigid, not turning around to look at her. This felt like the end of everything. It was a stupid damn feeling, and yet he couldn't shake it. It felt like their bubble had popped, and it was all going to fall apart now reality had encroached unavoidably. Hermione's fingers closed around his arm, and then she was in front of him, worried firewhiskey coloured eyes searching over his face. Draco swallowed and cleared his throat, eyes darting away from her pink cheeks and dark windswept hair, fixing his gaze on the grass.

"You're afraid! Aren't you?" she demanded, and Draco flattened his mouth and shrugged. He wasn't _afraid_. Just…nervous. He didn't know what kind of reception he was going to get back at Godric's, now that everything was laid fully out in the open, and he didn't know how he and Hermione were going to manage their relationship with the war and everything else going on. Still didn't know how to face the future, if it ever arrived for him.

"Nothing's going to change from how it was here. Well, nothing important at least. Everyone knows that we're together, so there's no reason to hide our relationship anymore. We'll go back, and everything will be just like it was here. It'll be _fine_, Draco. Honestly." She sounded so fucking hopeful, so bloody optimistic and Draco couldn't help but lift his eyes from the grass to her. Hermione's eyes were bright, when they weren't obscured behind the occasional banner of hair fluttering across her face in the wind. Her hand was firm around his arm, and her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips. She stepped closer to him, so their bodies were pressed together, and her breasts were crushed softly against him, her face tipped up to his, and Merlin, she looked so pretty.

"Is it ever that easy?" Draco asked, unable to keep a hint of bitterness out of his voice, and Hermione's mouth quirked into a lopsided smile, her hand reaching up to lie flat against his cheek.

"I don't want easy. I want you. Draco, you are _ridiculous_; you know that, stupid boy." And with those rather blunt words, Hermione kissed him, soft and wet and earnest, her fingers sliding up the planes of his face into his hair, and holding his mouth to hers; as if he'd ever want to pull it away. It was a kiss meant to reassure, not arouse, their mouths moving together with the easiness of familiarity, and Draco smiled into their kiss at the thought, his arm slipping around Hermione as she reached out and touched the handle of the tarnished old teapot.

# # #

_Author's Note: _This was one of my toughest chapters yet, and although I like how it turned out, I'm still not sure how it slots overall into the story. If the story was a road, then this chapter feels a little like a rest stop on the road, if I'm to get all metaphorical. A little bit like limbo, as Draco says. And as I said in the top author's note, more bittersweet than fluffy, I think. I dunno. Too tired. Brain not working. Anyway, you know the drill – I would love it if you'd leave a comment and tell me what you thought of it, lovely readers :D

Next chapter…the return to Godric's, with Pansy, new dynamics, and mission planning.

Oh, also, _Ingrid Michaelson_ is amazing, if you're into whimsical (often melancholic) indie pop type music, and her lyrics are beautiful.

Dramione fic rec: _The Politician's Wife_ by _pir8fancier_ on Hawthorn & Vine – I read it over the past day for the second time, and loved it just as much as the first readthrough. It has a very different feel/vibe to any other Dramione I've ever read (perhaps because it's set 20 years after the war) and it is _definitely_ worth taking a gander at.

See you next chapter!


	37. Keep Breathing

_Author's Notes: _Thank you for reviewing! Sorry if I haven't thanked you individually yet, too; life has been busy-busy-busy for me at the moment. Anyway, on with the story :)

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_**Keep Breathing**_

I want to believe in more than you and me

But all that I know is I'm breathing

All I can do is keep breathing

[Keep Breathing, Ingrid Michaelson]

Still locked in their kiss, the two of them tumbled rather ungracefully onto the front porch of the Godric's Hollow house. Swaying, nearly falling, steadied by Draco's arms, Hermione dropped the teapot carelessly to the porch and the first thing she heard welcoming her back home was Ron's voice, complaining indignantly,

"Oh bloody hell! Harry, burn my eyes out, _please!_"

Draco went stiff and unresponsive for a second, began to let her go, and then he growled low in his chest and gripped Hermione tighter, deepening the kiss. It went from a gentle, intimate reassurance to a fierce, passionate snog, his arms crushing around her, his fringe tickling her forehead. _Boys_, Hermione thought disparagingly even as she leant into the kiss, her mouth eager on Draco's, because possessive display or not, his kissing was always heavenly.

"Merlin's hairy bollocks! Get a fucking room," Ron whinged, "This is _scarring_. Traumatic. Harry, if you're really my mate, then for the love of Merlin, _blind me_. _Please._"

Hermione rolled her eyes at Ron's dramatics, but inwardly wondered when Draco was going to decide he'd made the impact he wanted. Snogging on the porch in order to spite Ron and Harry was hardly the sexiest thing in the world. At least, not with Ron making snide commentary.

"Malfoy. Oi. You've made your bloody point," Harry said, echoing Hermione's thoughts as Draco grabbed her bum and made her face scorch with hot embarrassment. She pulled back and extricated herself from the kiss just as Ron grizzled, "I'm feeling an urge to hex the _shit_ out of someone."

"Ronald, honestly," Hermione said snippily, flushed and embarrassed, her lips feeling kiss-swollen and tender but clutching Draco's hand tightly in hers. She wasn't going to hide anything. They were going to do things right this time around. Draco's fingers interlocked perfectly with hers, warm and firm, and as tight as if he was clutching on and using her as a lifeline, and it was a moment of surrealism; standing in front of Harry and Ron, holding hands with Draco Malfoy. There was an awkward pause as everyone else processed that fact, and then Harry stepped forward first, and pulled Hermione into a hug, and she had to let go of Draco's hand to squeeze Harry hard around the middle.

"Thanks for letting us stay away so long, Harry. I appreciate the break, really," Hermione said in his ear, and when Harry let go of her he shrugged it off embarrassedly, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the porch. "No problem, 'Mione. You deserved a holiday."

Ron was next, crushing her into him, breath smelling of beer, a grin on his face. "Missed you," he said simply and Hermione felt warm and fuzzy inside. "Honestly, Ron, I was only gone a week."

"With _him_. I'm just relieved you're back in one bloody piece," Ron said, jerking his head at Draco, and Hermione stepped back and linked her fingertips loosely with Draco's, the barest whisper of touch that grounded her, made her feel warm and steady inside. "_He_ has a name, you know. And don't be so rude."

"I can think of a few names I'd like to call him, but they're all a bit rude too, to be honest so –" Ron began, grinning, and Hermione shot him a glare that made him think twice about continuing.

"I swear Ron, if you don't behave!" Hermione snapped, her annoyed tone ruined by an unwilling smile creeping up on her as Ron gave her an innocent look, a naughty little boy turning on the charm. He was hopeless. _She_ was hopeless. She attempted a frown, and Ron shrugged.

"I won't hex Malfoy's bits off, 'Mione, but you can't expect me to be bloody _happy _about you being…_with_…him." And then Ron shot a glare at Draco, jabbing a finger at him, "And if you hurt her again, you bastard, I'll make you bloody regret it."

Draco snorted quietly, and nodded, his face expressionless as Hermione looked up at him; all sharp, emotionless planes and angles, eyes as chill and grey as a winter's day. His mouth was shaped into a slight sneer, and he looked every inch a haughty, arrogant pureblood bastard of a Malfoy.

"You can try," was all Draco said with a hint of cold amusement in his voice, and Hermione knew without a doubt that he was thinking of Azkaban. If – she refused to say when – _if _he went to Azkaban, he would be both hurting her and being taken out of Ron's reach of vengeance in one foul swoop. Trust Draco to find some sort of bitter humour in that, she thought and winced, turning her attention back to the bristling pissing contest, wherein Ron was currently attempting to threaten Draco some more, and failing to make any kind of impact.

Hermione drew a deep breath and cleared her throat loudly, turning a brittle smile on Ron, "Well. Have we got the male posturing over and done with now? Yes? Good," she said briskly without waiting for an answer, frowning at the three boys, who had the decency to look ever so slightly ashamed of themselves. She changed the subject sharply before they could start up again, taking a deep breath and inquiring pointedly, "So, why didn't tell me that you knew about Draco and I, Ron? What on earth were you – and everyone else – trying to accomplish by hiding the fact that you knew about…our relationship?"

"Well I can't speak for anyone else," Ron said, scratching his head and looking a little rueful, "But I was kinda hoping it was just stress-induced insanity, or something, and that I could just ignore it and pretend it wasn't happening, and wait 'til you got your senses back and got over the enormous git."

"_Ron!_"

"What? You asked." Ron said defensively, all sulky and sullen. "But it's pretty bloody obvious you aren't going to get over him, so…I'm just going to go on with trying to ignore it, if that's all right by you."

Hermione frowned hard, feeling rather annoyed over Ron's behaviour, but then again, what more could she expect from Ron? In the grand scheme of things, he'd already been rather supportive. That night at Ballater, he could have told Hermione she was mad for being in love with Draco, and said he hoped he died, which would have been both horrible and hurtful, and a very typically Ron response. But instead he'd comforted her and told her everything was going to be fine. She let her frown slip away with a sigh.

"Ignoring it means you can't make any snide comments, you realise?" she asked pertly, and Ron's face fell.

"Oh shit. 'Mione, that's not fair. You can't ask that of me!"

"Well, this is all very thrilling, but I really don't give a flying fuck what Weasley thinks of what you and I do or don't do, so could we perhaps go inside now?" Draco cut Ron off, voice dripping with bored superiority, and Ron snorted and Harry forestalled anymore arguing by hurriedly saying, "Come on then, everyone'll want to see you, 'Mione, and you'll want to put your trunk down and get settled back in."

Hermione kept her hand in Draco's as Harry and Ron grabbed their beers and led the way into the house, Hermione's trunk bobbing obediently behind she and Draco.

"Are you all right?" Hermione leaned over and whispered up into Draco's ear, and he shrugged, one spare, brief movement. Cold and distant; not the Draco he was in private, but the public mask – blank and dispassionate, the only sign of his affection the way he kept his fingers curled around hers. His defiance in snogging the living daylights out of her before in front of Ron and Harry had vanished during his exchange with Ron, and Hermione half wished he'd go back to laying claim on her like some kind of possessive caveman; it was nicer than this distance between them. But his fingertips on hers were real, and there, and it would have to be enough for her.

"We're going to have the mission planning meeting about the Muggle military raid tonight, after dinner. Professor McGonagall and Neville will be here," Harry said lamely, to fill in the oppressive silence as they filed into the foyer.

"That's –" _nice, Harry_, Hermione had been going to say but Ron roared, "Hermione's back!" at the top of his lungs and made her jump and roll her eyes, smiling at Harry who had the same expression of longsuffering patience on his face as she did. Draco made an annoyed sound and dropped her hand, and Hermione felt a small hurt prick sharply through her as he shoved his hand in his pocket and chewed on his lip, looking the picture of bored dissociation. She told herself that it was fine; that she hadn't expected him to be one for public displays of affection, and that it was completely fine and not something she should be upset by, but it didn't help. She still felt a pang of completely irrational rejection, and a weight settled into her bones that hadn't been there before.

"Hermione! My dear, welcome home!" Mrs Weasley exclaimed, hurrying up to give Hermione a brisk hug, and then turning to Draco, greeting him brightly, and Hermione was inexpressibly grateful; no one else was going to treat Draco that nicely, except perhaps Pansy. She wanted to hear what Molly was saying to him, but then Ginny was giving Hermione a hug as enthusiastic but brief and brisk as her mother's, all flying auburn hair and a slyly mischievous expression that hinted at wanting all the juicy details of Hermione and Draco's time away – and then a giggling whisper in Hermione's ear that confirmed her suspicions. And then Remus came down the stairs cradling something in his arms, and Hermione's heart stopped for sheer shock and excitement.

"Tonks had the baby!"

Remus looked up and smiled, the little bundle of blankets and baby carefully nestled against his chest with one arm. "She did. That _is_ what generally happens; it has to come out eventually, after all. Or so I've been told."

"But," Hermione shot Ron and Harry a murderous look, "_You didn't tell me Tonks had had the baby! Why didn't you tell me?_" she demanded incensed, in a tone that wasn't a deafening shriek only because she didn't want to startle the baby, now at the bottom of the stairs all cuddled up in his – or her? – daddy's arms. She didn't even know if it was a boy or a girl. She completely forgot all about Draco, and about being annoyed at Harry and Ron for not telling her – or letting her know while she had been away – and hurried forward to see the baby.

"Teddy," Remus said gravely, "Meet Hermione. Hermione, this is our Teddy Lupin."

"Hermione'll be the Aunt you go to when you need homework help, Teddy," Ron added helpfully, and Hermione shot him a ferocious, offended glare.

"Oh shush, Ron. You make me sound like all I'm good for is being a know-it-all-swot. I shall be the _fun_ Aunt. Who will cuddle you and kiss you, and… Oh Remus, he's _gorgeous_," she said, melting in the face of Teddy's tiny adorableness as he yawned, little mouth stretching wider open than she would have thought possible and eyes tightly squinching shut. "Oh look at that. Look at you, oh you are just dangerously cute." And then she saw his little tuft of hair – a glaringly bright bluish-green. "Oh, he's a metamorphagous, just like his mum," she cooed with a smile for Teddy, who was currently trying to devour his own fist with fierce determination.

"Would you like to hold him?" Remus offered and Hermione blanched, shaking her head no and taking a quick step back.

"Oh, oh I couldn't. He's too small. I'm not – I haven't been around babies much. Or rather, not at all, really."

"Go on, Hermione. We held ittle wittle Ronnikins all the time when he was a baby," Fred stuck his oar in from upstairs, leaning over the upstairs landing railing and grinning away, Angelina sandwiched cosily between him and George.

"And there's nothing to it, really," George tacked on, grinning as well, and Fred shot him a knowing look, and added,

"Although sometimes I wonder if all those times we dropped him had something to do with his…"

"_Specialness_," both twins finished together, and Ron went as red as his hair and spluttered at the pair of them, poking his wand up at them in furious but idle threat.

"Honestly, Hermione, if you'd like to hold him we can go and sit down, and you can have a cuddle," Remus offered again with a quietly proud smile, and little Teddy waved his fist at her and Hermione melted again, most alarmingly. She had no idea small babies could be so mesmerising. She stroked Teddy's clenched up fist, marvelling at how soft and delicate his skin felt, and bit her lip, nodding nervously, feeling rather as though she'd thrown herself to the lions. Her mind raced as she followed Remus into the lounge, asking automatically all the usual polite pleasantries; how Tonks was – fine, apparently, and just having a little lie down – and how old Teddy was – three days today.

She kept worrying that she'd drop him, and trying desperately to remember what little she'd read about babies. Weren't you supposed to support their heads? Yes, of _course_ you were. Merlin, Hermione, don't forget that, she thought with a nervous giggle as she sat down on the couch and held out her arms. It was ridiculous to be so worried, but she'd never actually held a newborn before, and well, he was just so _tiny_.

For a moment she wondered where Draco had gotten to, but then Remus was lowering Teddy gently into her arms, and in her sheer terror all thought of Draco flew straight out of her head – her brain filling up with the overwhelming thought; _oh god, whatever you do don't drop him_.

# # #

"Draco, dear. You're looking far too thin. Was the Healer not feeding you? You seem as though you've recovered well though – the scar is looking remarkably good. Oh, that reminds me; Pansy would like to see you, dear. She asked me to tell you as soon as you and Hermione got back." The stream of talking flooded over Draco in what felt like an unceasing onslaught before Mrs Weasley had to stop talking to draw breath, giving him a smile that was a little too strained to be cheery. He had not been prepared for such an enthusiastic greeting; he had expected – hoped – that he could just slink off to the cellar, and maybe see if that bottle of firewhiskey was still stashed inside the rip in his mattress. Just a glass or two, to take the edge off, he had told himself.

Draco supposed he could at least be glad Mrs Weasley hadn't hugged him. He latched onto the only thing in her rushed speech that interested him and gave him an escape; "Ah, hello, Mrs Weasley. Where is Pansy? Is she…?" He paused, not knowing how much Mrs Weasley knew about Pansy's _condition_. She seemed to understand though, and bustled him away from Hermione and the others into the relative privacy of the dining room.

"Is Pansy all right, dear?" Mrs Weasley finished Draco's question for him, all motherly in a way _his_ mother had never been; apron swathed around her and precariously bunned up hair, sleeves rolled up to her elbows and a smear of flour on the back of one wrist. He nodded dumbly, and she gave him a look that was pity and concern overlaid with reassurance.

"She's recovering well, poor girl. It was still quite early on, and I made sure we had a Healer with experience in…those sorts of things…come in to…" she paused again, "Take care of it. She's feeling a little fragile right now, of course, after everything she's been through, and with the moon waxing she's not feeling very well asides from _that_. But she'll be all right," Mrs Weasley finished on a positive note, nodding confidently.

"That's – um, that's good," Draco said stupidly, feeling embarrassed and highly uncomfortable with the topic, and utterly at sea – all the more confused by the bright sympathy in Mrs Weasley's eyes. She looked as though she wanted to reach out and pat him comfortingly, and was only just restraining herself.

"Are _you_ all right, Draco? It must be very hard for you too. If you wanted to talk about it, dear…" she offered kindly, and Draco furrowed his brow in bewilderment. That didn't make any sense. He was fine – Pansy's ordeal had nothing to do with him. All right, so she was a friend, and he felt terrible for her, but what could he have to talk about? Maybe Mrs Weasley thought that _Draco_ had been the…?

"Hard for _me_? But it wasn't my…" he began to say, and then an as yet unformed fear clutched coldly at him, sinking its claws into his flesh and bone, and it suddenly felt harder to breathe, his muscles winding tight and his pulse jumping.

"What must be hard for me, Mrs Weasley?" he asked in a dangerously calm, quiet voice, his lips and tongue feeling numb and clumsy as he shaped the words. His blood thrummed in his ears, and he felt dulled by that inexplicable fear, that crept up his spine and nested in his belly.

Molly Weasley looked horrified. "Oh my dear… Oh Merlin, Pansy said she told you about the baby, and…I thought…"

"Tell me," Draco demanded, his brain sharp and urgent and panicked even while his body seemed numb and leaden. "Tell me."

"I – I can't, dear. If she didn't tell you anything, then I can't. It's Pansy's business, not yours or mine, and if she doesn't want to tell you, then she doesn't have to." A flicker of sharpness and warning in Mrs Weasley's voice, and Draco didn't care. He didn't care about Pansy's _business_ or whether he should know. He had to know. He wasn't thinking about why. Couldn't think about why, like his brain wouldn't let him. Trying to protect him. But despite that, Draco knew that he had to know. Had to hear Pansy deny it, so that everything would be all right again – for him at least, not Pansy, wouldn't be all right for Pansy of course, would it, you selfish git, he thought with a hint of hysteria. But she could tell him, and then everything would be better for him, and this bottled up unnamed horror beating on the inside of his skull could drain out of him.

"Where is she?" Draco demanded roughly, his hand curled so tightly into a fist that his knuckles ached and his palm stung where his nails dug into the flesh. Mrs Weasley gave him a long, weighted look, before reluctantly saying, "In the cellar. She's spent most of the day waiting for you in your room; I didn't think you'd mind, and the poor dear seemed rather insistent, and I didn't like to argue, you know, after everything."

But everything after _in the cellar_ was lost to Draco as he bolted for the trapdoor, half running down the steps with his pulse racing and his brain cringing and shying away from what fit. It all fit. But Draco refused to put the pieces together himself; his mind was huddled in a corner of his skull with its eyes shut and hands clapped over its ears. He shoved the sliding door into his little room open frantically, revealing Pansy sitting on his bed with what looked like the bottle of firewhiskey he'd hidden in his mattress – and okay, maybe the rip hadn't been there to begin with, but a mattress was such a good hiding place, and it was a very old, scummy mattress, really. It wasn't like a rip would matter. Draco had known no one would find it there; none of them were sneaky enough. But Pansy was a Slytherin, and she knew him well. Or she had, what seemed like a very long time ago.

"Hello, Draco," Pansy said collectedly, and he couldn't help but choke out half a laugh. He had just burst in on her, probably wild-eyed and half-mad looking, and Pansy simply smiled at him and said hello; pallid and worn thin, eyes dull and sunken in her face, but perfectly calm and composed. Typical Pansy – she could face any situation with enough self-control for ten people. Draco couldn't, not right now. Not enough time spent around other people needing to hide his true feelings and keep up the mask. So much of the past few months he'd spent alone down here, or with Hermione in private, and in neither case did he need to keep up the flawless mask. So Draco skipped the pleasantries altogether, and asked despite himself,

"Who was the father?"

Pansy made a moue, wrinkling up that pug nose and sipping at the firewhiskey, shaking her head hard as she swallowed and it burnt its way down, her bedraggled hair falling around her face.

"That's mine," Draco said stupidly and stepped quickly forward and snatched it from her, sat down heavily on the bed – he thought he might need to be sitting – and took a drink – he thought he might need that too. The firewhiskey was, like its name, liquid heat – searing down his throat and filling him with a strange, knife-edge thrill; his nerves were strung thin and wire taut, and the liquor was an old familiar friend that he shouldn't be associating with anymore, but by Merlin was it _good_. No sooner had he lowered the bottle from his lips than Pansy grabbed it back with thin, pale fingers, looking a caricature of her old, snooty self.

"Don't be so rude, Draco. I'm your guest. Has the rabble here made you forget your breeding and your manners, or are you just being a gigantic prat on purpose?" she asked without meaning it, dodging his question, trying to redirect him with jabs and offence. Draco wasn't deterred; not dignifying her blather with an answer, his hand out waiting for the bottle as she drank. Pansy passed it back, gasping, shivering her shoulders as the alcohol went down. It was warm in his hand, the bottleneck. Draco stared at the bottle contemplatively, heart in his fucking throat and chest aching, firewhiskey burning a hole in the pit of his sick stomach, and asked again,

"Who was the father, Pansy?"

"Why the sudden interest?"

"You told Mrs Weasley."

"Oh wonderful. I should've kept my mouth shut. Should've known you can't trust Gryffindors and blood traitors to –"

"Pansy," Draco interrupted raggedly, his fingers trembling around the bottleneck. "Pansy, don't. Just _don't_. Answer the fucking question."

She glanced up at him, white-faced and radiating hurt and sullen resentment, and then dragged her eyes away, staring at the wall, her fingers twisting around a straggling lock of hair. Her mouth moved and nothing came out, she shut it and took a deep breath, shook her head. "It's not important, Draco. It's over now; there's no _father_ because there's no baby." She glared at him, eyes glittering, like shiny flat pebbles pressed into her face. "It's none of your fucking business, anyway. Just let it go. That's what I'm…trying to do."

"I fear it very much _is_ my business, and I can't – can't let it go if it is, Pansy. You know me. You know that. You can't expect me to…I need to know," Draco got out through numbed lips, his words clipped and harsh, and took another swig of firewhiskey. It scorched his insides, but didn't touch him at the same time, and he swore under his breath. He wanted the relief of the firewhiskey spreading through him, leaving his fingers and toes pleasantly numbed and his core filled with warmth, the edges of his thoughts softened and blurred to a bearable level.

Pansy was silent, big round flat-pebble eyes pinned to his face disconcertingly, somehow shiny and dead at the same time. Her mouth worked again, and seemingly unable to say it, she just nodded shortly.

"_What?_" Draco demanded confused, feeling a vein pulsing at his temple, and the tendons and muscles in his jaw and neck and – fuck, _everywhere_ – strung so tight they felt like they were going to snap, or rip him apart under the strain. "Yes _what_, Pansy?" he half-begged her as she blinked dully at him; was she nodding yes that he needed to know, or yes to his implication? Merlin fucking _damn _her.

"Y – you're right. It is your business," Pansy answered flatly and faintly, no fight left in her, the words sliding out easy and emotionless, and Draco's breath escaped him in a choking rush. He couldn't catch it, couldn't catch his breath, and his chest was rising and falling hard and fast, and he felt instantly dizzy. Dizzy and lost and fucking _fucked_. His head swam, and he wished he'd never asked. He wished Mrs Weasley had kept her bloody mouth shut. Draco licked dry lips and nodded slowly as the truth sank into him, still dragging desperately for breath that just didn't seem like _enough_, his heart tripping in his chest.

"My father," he said just as dull and lifeless as Pansy. "My _father_?" Draco's voice caught on the uptilt of the question; it hitched and broke as he stared at her, pleading for her to tell him it wasn't true. No. Couldn't be true. Not his father.

"Yes," Pansy said, the one word that shattered illusions that Draco had thought were already shattered. Draco hadn't thought his father could hurt him any further; he had thought that after everything his father had already done, nothing could shock Draco, nothing could make him feel this sick, wrenching disbelief. The shame of being his father's son. The horror of what his father had _done_.

"He…" Draco began, unable to finish. He thought perhaps he was in shock, staring at Pansy with his brain blank except for that one horrible, sickening, world-ending thought; _he raped her, he raped her – raped her, he – he – he…oh Merlin._

"Yes," Pansy said, lifting her chin, a spark of life springing up in her eyes, her voice clear and strong as she stared Draco down, as if expecting him to deny it. And the first word that settled on the tip of his tongue _was_ 'no', but not because he didn't believe her. He remembered with horrible clarity, walking in on his father in his study, and seeing him with a crying, half-naked Muggle girl; taking his pleasure. Draco bit his tongue and choked down bile and vomit, throat clogged and sour and stomach roiling. Draco had walked in on his father doing…_that_, and instead of saying _anything_, instead of…he'd just shut the door and walked away, without a single word, feeling ill and awful and trying to forget. He believed Pansy. Merlin help him, he believed her, and he realised with bitter amusement that despite the way his father had maimed him, and tortured him, there were limits even he wouldn't cross.

Such as raping a pureblood witch whom not, so long ago, had for all intents and purposes, been Draco's girlfriend.

"My father…" Rage finally forced its way past Draco's shock, searingly hot, boiling its way through his veins and setting his mind seething with horror and his heart pounding even harder. His hand tightened around the bottleneck, knuckles going white.

"Why?" he asked quietly, not really aiming the question at Pansy; knowing there was no point in asking; there was no reason that could explain, no reason that could make it easier. Just pain and shame and hurt, and a furious hatred so strong that it frightened him even as it uprooted him and swept him away in it. Pansy answered him anyway.

"He wanted an heir to replace you." Pansy's voice wavered a little bit, and Draco's mouth twitched involuntarily as it hit him. He sucked in a ragged breath and pressed his lips together, trying and failing to stop the tic. It was hard to speak, hard to breathe, hard to _think_ past the hate and the dreadful _shame_ that was roaring in his head and his chest and sparking through his limbs and making his hand tremble and his mouth twitch like a fucking metronome.

"He was _trying_ to get you pregnant."

"Yes."

"He was actually trying…my father was…_fuck_." It consumed Draco, it ate him up, tearing tiny shreds off him one at a time as he pictured that scene in the study again, only this time Pansy was the only struggling and crying wretched, powerless tears below his father; all traces of his father's old elegance gone as he grunted on the floor like a rutting beast. Pansy, eyes screwed shut and hands batting helplessly at his father's head and shoulder, one smooth, naked leg visible to Draco from the doorway. It was clear as if he was viewing it through a pensieve, and he wanted to cry. Wanted to cry and rage and kill his father. Wanted him not to be his father. Wanted not to be the son of a fucking _rapist_.

It was too much, all too fucking much, and then the bottle of firewhiskey impacted the wall – an explosion of dark amber and bright shards, and Draco hadn't even _decided_ to hurl it he just had, and in the same second was up on his feet, pacing, pacing. He was a coil of tension and rage and hate, all the epithets he'd ever heard spewing low and vehement from between bloodless lips, breath coming in little jerky rasps as his fingers dragged at his hair. He tried to wrap his mind around the facts, but they were sharp and hurtful and dug into him, tearing at him as he tried to process the truth.

His father had raped Draco's ex-girlfriend – Draco's _friend _– in order to turn her into some sort of fucking broodmare who would produce an heir to replace Draco. It was sick. Sick and horrible and Draco wanted to rip the knowledge out of his head; wanted someone to _Obliviate _him so that he wouldn't have to go through every day of the rest of his life knowing that he was his father's son, and all that entailed.

Pansy watched him silently, like a wraith on his bed, eyes big in her gaunt face, skinny fingers twisting and tugging nervously in her lank hair. _She _had to live with it every day, Draco thought suddenly, feeling like an utter bastard for not thinking of that first. He wondered insanely, wildly, thoughts skimming and skipping in the turmoil of his mind, if looking at Draco reminded her of it. If she saw his father every time she looked at Draco. If…

Draco wanted to kill his father. He wanted to _crucio _him to the brink of total madness, and then use the Killing Curse and watch the light die in the bastard's eyes.

Merlin. His father. His friend. And his blotted out half-sibling. Merlin, Draco felt ill as he realised with visceral horror that Pansy had been pregnant with his half-brother or sister. He froze in his frantic stilted pacing, motionless, head tilted slightly to one side as he desperately tried to understand what had happened, and do something other than completely fall apart in front of Pansy. If she could cope, if she could sit there pale and composed and not crumbling to pieces after what she had been put through, then Draco should be able to keep it together as well, for Merlin's sake.

"Draco?" Pansy asked quiet and nervous, as if on cue, and Draco whipped his head around to stare at her with wide, trapped eyes, feeling inadequate and useless and utterly overwhelmed. He couldn't. He couldn't be what she needed right now. Couldn't give her the support she deserved; he was too wrapped up and reeling in the light shone on the truth, which had been lurking in the darkest recesses of his mind since Pansy had first refused to tell him who the father was. But Draco hadn't _wanted_ to know, not really. He hadn't wanted it to be his _father_ who had violated Pansy. His own flesh and blood, sticking his cock in…

"I'm sorry," Draco gasped and staggered for the door, just making it out and slamming it shut behind him before a heaving spasm grabbed him and shook him. The corner of the cellar was right there, two steps away, and Draco stumbled to it and vomited all over the packed dirt floor, shoulder leaning heavily into the wall as he bent nearly double, emptying his stomach violently. He choked and retched, fingers scrabbling at the wall to keep himself upright as his eyes streamed and his stomach emptied itself over and over, until all that was left was acid bile that scorched his throat. Draco's abdomen ached from the spasms, his throat burnt, his mouth tasted sour and rancid, and his face was salty wet when the wracking heaves finally stopped.

Pansy hadn't come out after him but Draco hadn't expected her to, and when he shoved himself gingerly upright, he could hear soft, muffled sobs. As though her heart was broken and puddled on the floor; the tears of someone who had been ground up and spat out, and now there was just nothing left to fight the wretched hurt back with. Draco couldn't stand to listen. He was a selfish, cowardly bastard, and he needed to either get dead drunk or kill something. He spat on the ground several times and then used the borrowed wand that he was finally trusted with outside of missions to vanish the vomit. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and coughed; ribs and abdominal muscles protesting, all the while unable to obliterate the memory of his father raping the Muggle girl, his treacherous mind still planting Pansy into the memory.

It was unbearable, and he was only imagining it. How must she have felt? To have her friend's – her ex-boyfriend's – father doing…_that_ to her? Draco felt his stomach quail and spasm, and clamped his mouth shut, wrapped his arm around his middle and told himself not to throw up. Not to throw up. He couldn't stop his brain from wondering how it had happened. If she had fought. What his father had said. If he had hurt her physically other than the violation itself. How often it had happened. Shit. There was nothing around to kill, so drink it was, Draco thought, mouth screwed up with the taste of bile clawing at his throat and sour-stale on his tongue, eyebrows scrunched down as he shuffled for the stairs still clutching his middle, leaving Pansy alone in his room, sobbing desperately and all alone, and Merlin he was a fucking _arsehole_.

The dining room was thankfully empty, the liquor cabinet well-stocked again, and Draco nabbed another bottle of firewhiskey and hovered uncertainly in place for a moment, trying to decide where to retreat to drink himself into oblivion. The back porch, he thought after vacillating between it and Hermione's bedroom; he was less likely to be disturbed out the back. No one every really went out there, and Hermione was busy catching up with her friends and wouldn't wonder where he was for a while – long enough to get totally blitzed, hopefully.

"Draco?"

He jerked his head up, clamping his lips together and trying to set his face into some semblance of composure. "Yes?" He sounded cold, suspiciously cold, as he turned his eyes on Hermione, who stood frowning and worried in the doorway, hands fiddling with the hem of her jersey.

"Nikolai said he heard you and Pansy…arguing? He said you were… Well, ah...are you all right?" Her eyebrows scrunched together with naïve concern and Draco swore inwardly. Damned Durmstrang bastards. Why couldn't they stay somewhere else? Somewhere that wasn't in _his _fucking cellar.

"No. And no, I don't want to talk about it," he snapped out pre-emptively, walking briskly away from Hermione, down the hallway that led from the dining room past the bathroom and laundry out to the back porch. Hermione's footsteps hurried after him, and he felt his shoulders hunch with tension. Merlin damn it, Draco just wanted to try to forget about it all, and Hermione would pick and prod, and look at him with worried whiskey-brown eyes until he had no choice but to tell her, unless he wanted to be a prick and send her away in tears.

"What's wrong?"

Draco paused abruptly and stared at her, searching for the words that would dissuade her, convince her to leave him in peace while he tried to wrap his head around the fact that his father really, truly was a monster.

"Oh Draco – drinking? You know you're not supposed to," Hermione said primly before Draco could speak, her hand closing around his where it clutched the firewhiskey bottle. He glared at her.

"I can drink if I fucking well want to, Hermione. You are not my mother, nor my keeper." He pulled the bottle back to his side and her hand slid off his, her chin trembling once before she stilled it, puzzled hurt wavering in her eyes. She took a step closer to him, face uptilted to his, grave and calm, "All right. I'm not. That's a fair point. But you really _shouldn't_ be drinking. Alcohol is not a healthy coping method for…whatever's wrong. It doesn't help. Just – talk to me, Draco. Tell me what you and Pansy were arguing about. Maybe it'll help."

"It was my father," Draco admitted tiredly, wedging the bottle between his maimed arm and his chest, and unscrewing the cap. "We weren't arguing with each other. Pansy told me that it was my father."

She looked at him, just as bewildered and slightly disapproving as he took a swig from the bottle. "What was your father?"

Oh, that was right; Hermione didn't know that Pansy had been…

"Pansy defected in part because she was pregnant, and wanted to get rid of the baby, Hermione. It was my father. _Work it out_," Draco grated, and turned on his heel, shoving the porch door open and assuming his customary position at the railing, leaning over it and staring at the grey sky as he sipped from the bottle and tried to calm his racing pulse. Something warm brushed against his elbow, and then Hermione's left arm – whole and smooth, with strong, slim fingers and a little white scar on the back of one knuckle – settled beside his maimed arm. The comparison was painful. Hermione leant over the railing beside him, and Draco glanced down at her, to see her face was furrowed in thought.

"Pansy was…sleeping with your _father_?" she asked finally, shock and disgust drenching her voice and an involuntary spasm flickered over Draco's face; annoyance and anger and strain fraying his nerves until they were threads barely holding. "But then why…?" she added, musing aloud, and Draco wondered at her obtuseness, sometimes. For someone so bright, and who had been confronted by evil so many times, Hermione still had no real comprehension of the darker sides of human nature, of the evils that people – even _fathers,_ Draco thought bitterly – could commit. He drank before he answered her, sighing at the delicious burn of the firewhiskey and ignoring her brief glance of disapproval, her mouth pursed up, prim and proper and eyes flickering with a genuine worry that took the edge off his irritation with her.

"She didn't want to be," Draco managed at last, mouth working as he tried to hold back his emotion, clinging tight to the firewhiskey bottle – he wasn't going to waste another one, no matter how much he wanted to fling something and watch it smash to smithereens. He couldn't say the words outright to, and Merlin, if she didn't understand _didn't want to be_ then he was going to go spare, and utterly lose it on her. He stared out into the back garden, dulled, all greens and greys with the occasional splotch of colour that looked faded under the dismal sky. The air was cool, and the firewhiskey was hot in his stomach. He heard Hermione make a horrified sound of understanding. And then a hand tugged at the bottle and Draco let it go, watching with bitter humour as Hermione brought the firewhiskey to her lips and spluttered as it burnt its way down.

Hermione passed it back to Draco, and her arm linked through his, elbows hooked together, her fingers stroking over his forearm just above where the fading scarring of the stump began. He stared at Hermione's fingers, light and gentle over the skin, which was half numbed by nerve damage so that he could _see_ her touching him, but the feel of it was like a far off echo. The sensation was soothing though, smoothing over the spiky edges of his turmoil. She shuffled even closer so that she was snugged against his side, laid her head against his shoulder and sighed. Draco drank silently, staring out at the tree at the end of the garden, branches bending gently in the wind, in no hurry to talk. Her touch was the faintest whisper and the firewhiskey was slipping through him, hot and unwinding some of the worst tension. The only sound was her breathing, and the wind rustling tree leaves and whistling over the chimney.

"I am sorry. I am so sorry, Draco. It must be…terrible," Hermione said haltingly at last, and he could sense her struggle to find the right words.

"It's worse for Pansy," Draco said bluntly; more a self-accusation for his falling apart in the cellar and being unable to be there for Pansy than anything directed at Hermione, but of course _she_ didn't know that, and she flinched, fingers pressing hard into his skin and sending little shocks of feeling and pain up his arm. He carefully didn't react and show his pain; she had never touched him like that before – so close to his injury – and he didn't want her to stop. It felt…good, even with the pain.

"I – I know. I can't even imagine…"

"I can. I can't _stop_ imagining…_Merlin_. My _father_. I'm the son of a fucking monster. I thought – I thought that even after my hand there were still lines he wouldn't cross, but I suppose I was wrong."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said again inadequately, an ache in her voice that Draco could hear clear as day; a quavering, halting shake to her words.

"I knew that – I knew that he had…raped…women before." Draco said the awful word, picturing the study once more and bolstering himself with a quick gulp of firewhiskey. "But they were Muggles, prisoners – I know that doesn't make it any better," he added hastily as Hermione shot him a suspicious, wary glance, mouth opening to question what he'd said, "But in _his_ mind, it's completely different. Pansy is a pureblood witch, and as such, the thought of forcing her is…unthinkable to a wizard with the slightest morals at all. Muggles and prisoners are just…there to be used."

Hermione yanked the bottle from his hand and drank, shuddered from more than just the firewhiskey; sickened disgust printed all over her face, and Draco felt an intense sense of shame that he had ever been a part of all of _that_. Even if he had never done anything himself…he had been involved. He had been party to so much horror, and he knew how much it upset Hermione, to know what he had done and seen before he had defected.

"I – I'm the son of a…Merlin. I was before, I know. But – _Pansy?_ She was my girlfriend. I cared about her – I still do. It makes it all real, somehow. It sounds awful; it is awful, but when it was prisoners and Muggles I could pretend – pretend that it was normal. It was something that I expected, even though it was horrible." Draco said it without thought of how mentioning Pansy as his girlfriend might affect Hermione, and realised only once the words were already out. But she just pressed her cheek to his shoulder a little harder, and handed the bottle back to him.

"It has nothing to do with you," she said at last, quiet and even as her fingers still traced over the boundaries of the scarring; not the reaction Draco had been expecting. "It's not your fault. You're not responsible for what your father does. It doesn't reflect on you in the slightest. He is nothing like you; he disowned you, Draco. The only connection you have to him is the past."

"Yes," he said dryly, bitterly, unshed tears stinging at his eyes. "The _past_; comprising of my entire life, from conception until – until he mutilated and then disowned me. _That _past? You know full fucking well it's not at all the same as if it were one of the other Death Eaters who had…"

"I know. I know. But it doesn't matter whose son you are. You could be _Voldemort's_ son, and it wouldn't make any difference to me, or anybody else. You aren't your father – you're your own person, Draco, and I think you've proved that satisfactorily to everyone by now."

Draco didn't have anything to say to that. Hermione was right, of course. Draco knew that, but he didn't feel it. She didn't prod for an answer though, and they stood staring out at the grey, dreary skies and windswept garden, passing the bottle silently back and forth between them. His mind wandered, although his father and Pansy were never fully absent from his thoughts. Hermione's body was snuggled warm against his, her hair whipping loosely in the wind, like little banners flailing over his chest and neck, and her fingers had crept nervously until they nearly encircled his stump, and Draco's eyes kept flicking down to the sight. It was disturbing and painful; the contrast of her perfect hand wrapped around his mutilation, but it also sent an unexpected, unhoped for feeling of acceptance worming through him. It didn't disgust her too terribly then; he had always wondered.

He had seen Hermione looking at it so many times, and yet she always skirted around it, and despite what she had said so long ago about not being shallow, Draco had never been sure if she was disgusted, afraid of hurting him, or just plain afraid. It looked alien, he knew, and he didn't like touching it – still hadn't adjusted to it, even after so many months. Draco wasn't like Cho Chang, who had seemingly bounced back from losing her leg, taking the injury with cheerful, determined amiability. He still hadn't accepted it. He sipped the firewhiskey, enjoying the way it had slowed his brain and dulled his senses, and offered the bottle to Hermione. She shook her head, curled her right hand around the inside of his elbow, leaning heavily on him; perhaps she was more affected by the firewhiskey than Draco had thought.

"She was pregnant with my half-brother or sister. Isn't that so fucking _strange_?" Draco said, tongue feeling thick and awkward as he spoke, words slurring a little. He held it up to the drizzle of light seeping through the heavy clouds and saw over half the bottle had disappeared.

"Was?" Hermione asked, sounding just as drunk as Draco did.

"She didn't keep it. As I said before."

"I forgot," Hermione slurred apologetically, "Sorry. Do you wish that she hadn't, or…?"

"Oh shit, Merlin, _no_. That would be wrong and horrible in far too many ways to count. No, I'm glad she didn't want to have it, I guess, not that it's any of my business."

"No. It's not. It's Pansy's." Hermione agreed, yawning and stumbling a little over her own feet as she shifted back from the railing, and Draco balanced her, feeling more than a little unsteady himself.

"I think maybe I drank too much," Hermione mumbled, taking her hand away from Draco's scarred injury and rubbing at her eyes and yawning, and he twisted so they faced each other, holding her waist to help steady her on her feet. She swayed into him, breasts crushing warm and firm against him, forehead dropping onto his chest, hands clutching at his sides and fisting handfuls of his shirt. Her breath was hot through the thin cotton, and one of her hands slid up, pressing flat against his chest as she breathed, hot and steady.

"I think you did too," he said, enunciating very carefully so he didn't slur, and let go of Hermione's waist, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and their eyes connected. Then suddenly her hands were at his shoulder and behind his head, drawing his mouth insistently down to hers, up on her tiptoes against him, fingers twisting in his hair. For a moment it was wrong and off-kilter; after what they had been talking about, with what Draco couldn't stop thinking about – it just didn't seem right to want each other like that. But Draco let Hermione kiss him anyway, and it was soft and slow, her tongue probing lazy and thorough, and a thrill shocked through him, a rush of hot want, and his hand gripped her jaw and cheek hard to pin her mouth there as he dipped his tongue into her mouth and slid it over hers, and she bowed out into him with a moan…

And then she pulled away with a soft gasp, eyes glittering bright and amber-warm on his, her cheeks pinked and lips parted and damp.

"Maybe we should go upstairs," Hermione said, grasping at his hand, and Draco nodded, eyes glued to hers, feeling dazed and half-lost and more than a little drunk. Maybe _that_ would take his mind off everything for a little while; there was nothing quite like losing himself in her, and it was still all so new that Draco felt like he could spend all day shagging Hermione, and never, ever want to stop. Her legs and the curve of her luscious arse, and the firm warmth of her tits, and the way she moaned and arched under him, and whimpered his name. He blinked and cleared his throat, "Good idea. Upstairs. _Now._"

# # #

Her head was spinning, around and around as they crept unobtrusively upstairs, her bedroom tilting and whirling as she shut the door behind them, and it took her three attempts to get the locking charm on the door to work. She was drunk, and she wanted him, and she supposed, with the tiny still-rational part of her brain, that having sex with Draco right now would be highly inappropriate. Hermione kept thinking about what Draco had told her; his father had raped Pansy and gotten her pregnant…and every time Hermione thought about it a nauseous, heart-wrenching sympathy intruded unwelcome on her aching, consuming desire. Draco had only just found out about his father, and he was hurting and drunk and looking to forget – she knew him, knew that that was what he wanted even if he wouldn't admit it – and Hermione was drunk and her judgement was bloody well shot, and oh Merlin, this was a recipe for disaster.

But then the charm finally worked and the door was locked, the privacy spells activated, and Hermione turned around and Draco was _there_. Standing by her bed, staring at her with drink-glazed grey eyes, pupils swamping his irises, pale-blond hair falling over his forehead – silky and tousled and begging for her fingers to twine in it. His face was paler than usual, the whites of his eyes bloodshot and his hand trembled at his side – the aftermath of Pansy's news, Hermione supposed, trying to repress a frown and a sense of resentment towards the other witch.

Draco hadn't needed to know _that_ about his father. He should never have found out; it was pointlessly hurtful, and – and then Draco stepped decisively toward Hermione and grabbed her hair, wrenched her stumbling against him, his right arm locking around her waist, his hand winding in her hair and yanking her head back so he could kiss her deep and consuming. Hermione moaned; the sound muffled by his mouth slanting over hers, his tongue slipping between her lips and setting off throbbing pulses in her clit. The room spun faster and tilted on its axis as Draco dragged her around abruptly, their lips breaking contact, and she clung to him, fingertips digging into his shoulders as he pushed her stumbling back with him until her back hit something hard and solid, half-bruising her shoulder blades.

"Guh…mmph, Dra-Draco…" Hermione shivered with visceral want as Draco pinned her against the wall with his body, hard and lean and radiated a feverish heat, his erection pressing into her belly, his mouth dropping an open-mouthed kiss clumsily on the corner of hers. Hermione tilted her face eagerly up, seeking his lips and kissing him hard, her chest heaving for breath as he crushed her between his lean body and the wall. It was intoxicating, and not just because Draco tasted like firewhiskey, scorching and heady on her tongue. Every graze and probe of his lips and tongue over Hermione's sent pulsing heat into her core; her womb clenching and aching, her body wanting desperately to be filled by him, and slick wetness damped her knickers.

Her hands slipped beneath Draco's shirt, slid up his sides, his skin so smooth and so hot, his mouth dragging across her swollen-tender lips, away, down to nip at her jaw, suck hot and wet at that spot on her throat that made her twitch with arousal and her legs go weak and wobbly.

"Oh, nggh – god – Merlin –" She couldn't even speak coherently, Draco's hips rocking into her with needy little movements, and his arm locked around her waist was the only thing keeping her upright. Hermione was dizzy and her mind was a blurred mess; melting into him and moaning shamelessly, and he was everywhere and everything, and it couldn't be better.

Draco wasn't gentle. Hermione hadn't expected him to be – hadn't wanted him to be. He'd corrupted her, she thought with an odd little drunken smile twisting at her lips; he had made her love it when he hurt her just the tiniest bit, when the sex was not just sex but trying to forget, or take out anger, or anything really that filled it with that painfully taut, vibrating desperation to lose themselves completely in each other. Hermione wanted that rough neediness right now, with mouths clashing, and fingers pinching and probing and _greedy_ on naked skin, the only sounds their ragged breaths overlaid with the whimpers and moans Draco dragged out of her.

They were still against the wall, except Hermione was in nothing but her underwear and bra now, and Draco in his unbuttoned jeans, his face buried against the crook of her neck, his breath hot on her skin, his hand down her underwear. Hermione thought dazedly as Draco's fingers slid over her sensitive, swollen flesh and swirled over her clit, dipped into her pussy and sent wrenching spasms of _want_ through it, that if she had known that having sex with Draco was like _this_, she would have started doing it a long time ago, back at school. His arrogant, nasty bigotry would have been worth putting up with for _this_.

He worked pleasure into her with his fingers, drew it out of her, made the pleasure swell and pulse and wrench her body until Hermione was raking her nails down his back and shuddering with it, begging him to please just fuck her in gasped half-sentences. The words that spilled from her lips, the babbled, ragged pleas were things she had only ever said to him, things she had never even thought before meeting him, things she only ever wanted him to do. Draco grabbed her roughly, pulling her around and reversing their positions so that his back was to the wall, and jerking his head at the floor.

"Down," he grated out, and Hermione whimpered as the order sent a jolt of arousal through her every inch of her throbbing and aching with need. He really had corrupted her, she thought again vaguely as she obediently dropped to her knees in front of him, Draco's hand resting on her head, a little smirk shaping his lips as she raised her eyes to his, and the sight of that superior, smug smirk made her flesh thrill and quiver, wanting him so badly. Wanting him buried in her, using her, thrusting and pounding until it almost hurt, making her arch beneath him and beg for _more_, and moan and scream in gasping breaths when he gave it to her.

Her fingers tugged Draco's jeans and cotton boxers down to his ankles with swift, eager motions, and his fingers tightened in her hair, pulling her face toward him, toward his jutting erection. Hermione wetted her lips with a sweep of her tongue, and took him into her mouth, her tongue sliding flat over the head of his dick, curling around it, dipping into the slit at the top and Draco's hand jerked at her hair painfully, a low whimper escaping his lips. Hermione smiled around his cock, sucking hard and letting it pop out of her mouth, lapping her way down the underneath of the shaft and feeling the muscle of his thigh tense under her right hand – her left hand busy tracing her fingers lightly over his balls, the way she had discovered several days ago that he liked very much.

"Fuck. Oh fucking_ Merlin_, Hermione please don't fucking stop," Draco groaned, head dropping back against the wall as her mouth fastened wet and sloppy over the head of his dick, tongue busy swirling and lapping, her hand moving from his balls to grip the shaft of his cock, moving her hand up and down in unison with her mouth. Draco groaned again and his fingers spasmed in her hair, his hips thrusting out and pushing his erection further into her mouth, and Hermione forced down her gag reflex and took in as much of him as she could, the ragged little sounds he was making worth the sore throat she knew his short, hard thrusts were going to leave her with.

Draco stopped after a few moments with a stifled groan, his cock rock hard, and as Hermione wrapped her hand around the shaft the vein beneath her fingers pulsed hard. She started to suck again and he stilled her movements, hips bucking out even as he gasped, "_Don't_. Don't or I'll – I'll come."

Hermione blushed slightly, but flashed a superior, amused grin up at him, "Isn't that rather the point, Draco?" Her voice sound husky and hoarse, the back of her throat hurt a little bit, and Draco managed a wobbling smirk, fingers playing through her tangled hair.

"Not now. Not like this. I want to fuck you first," Draco said as he grabbed her upper arm and yanked her upright, wincing as she fell against him and crushed his cock between them. His mouth found her throat, licking and nipping just beneath her ear and sending electric shivers down Hermione's spine. "I want to bend you…over the bed…and screw you 'til you scream," he mumbled against her skin, fumbling with her bra and swearing under his breath as it refused to cooperate with his efforts, and Hermione laughed breathily and reached back and unhooked it, shrugged the straps off her shoulders. Draco made a hungry, greedy sound in the back of his throat and Hermione whimpered in involuntary response, the strength draining out of her legs as Draco pushed her shoulders back so her upper body draped back over his maimed arm, and then he ducked his head to her breasts.

Hermione wobbled and she could feel the muscles in Draco's arm bunch and shift beneath the skin as he kept them from tipping over, his mouth hot and hungry on a nipple. Draco's tongue rasped and teased and a groan shuddered out of her, his teeth nipped and gently tugged and she clutched at his upper arms, her head falling back – and that was all it took to send them over.

Hermione's head tipping backwards overbalanced their precarious embrace, and hobbled by his jeans around his ankles Draco couldn't move quickly enough to compensate. Hermione shrieked as she fell back, pulling Draco with her, his hand flying out to hit the floor and cushion the fall. They landed heavily and the breath whooshed out of her, but Draco's hand splayed on the floor by Hermione's head and his arm curled around her middle had stopped her head from impacting the floor too hard. Then his arm trembled and buckled, and he landed the rest of the way on top of her, and Hermione squeaked and shoved at him, the mood broken into a thousand pieces.

"Off – off – can't…breathe!" Hermione gasped, "God – you weigh – a – a ton!" She was laughing and desperately sucking in air at the same time, and Draco glared at her, obviously trying to summon what shreds of dignity were left to him. His hair was mussed and a tuft stuck up ridiculously, and he muttered a ruffled 'sorry' and wriggled off her. She started to sit up, thinking that was it – they'd lost the moment – and Draco pushed her gently but firmly back down, sharp grey eyes molten and determined. He slithered onto his side, propped up over her on one elbow; left leg hooked over hers, left hand sliding lightening quick over her belly and into her plain purple cotton undies, and Hermione jerked and her mouth made a strained 'o'. Her hips pushed up automatically and Draco's fingers slid over her flesh, pinching and rubbing at her clit and the remnants of her laughter died in her throat.

Her hands trailed over Draco's skin, as he dropped his deliciously hot mouth back to her breasts, each tug of his lips and lap of his tongue on her nipples setting off flaring throbs in her clit that Draco teased into life with his fingers. Hermione bit her lip; her skin feeling like it was _radiating_ heat, her breath rattling in her chest, fingers exploring every inch of him that she could reach, as if she was mapping him out. His muscles were lean and wiry beneath skin that was smooth except for the swirling scars on his abdomen, and the knotted, livid scar on his throat.

Her fingers slid up his arms, across his shoulders, over his collarbones and up over the scar as Draco lifted his head from her breast to look up at Hermione. He licked his lips and smiled knowingly as his fingers circled around and around on her clit, grey eyes locked on hers all silvery and sharp and warm at once. Hermione smiled weakly back, and she knew she looked glazed and flushed, breath catching in her throat and muscles tightening in little waves as Draco brought her closer and closer to coming. He smirked wider when a whimper quivered from Hermione's lips, and looked so smug that she wanted to slap him; either that or make him hurry up and get her to come, before she imploded from frustration.

"Don't stop," she demanded in a low voice, and unceremoniously shoved Draco's face back to her chest, her fingers running along his faintly stubbled jaw, which grated and prickled on the sensitive skin of her breasts as his tongue laved over one nipple. Hermione kept her hands moving, grazing over his ears and running her fingers through his hair, tugging gently at bunches of it, her right knee coming up, foot flat on the floor, hips tilting up needily as two of Draco's fingers eased inside her, curling and thrusting torturously slow. The floor was hard on her spine, and Draco's fingers were cool inside her, his thumb firm on her clit, his hair soft and fine in her fingers, and Hermione felt like she was melting around him.

Hermione came when his thumb stroked one last time over her clit, and Draco lifted his head from her breast and captured her mouth, muffling her moans with his lips, his fingers still sliding in and out of her and creating ripples of overwhelming sensation. She clutched his hair with one hand and shoulder with the other, her toes curling and muscles going taut as he kissed her and she shuddered on his fingers. When her orgasm ebbed away and he shifted back, slid his fingers from her exquisitely over-sensitive flesh, Hermione opened her eyes to Draco looking down at her with his fingers in his mouth.

A choked gasp escaped Hermione as Draco finished sucking on them and smirked at her, trailing a damp finger around the dusky pink border of one of her aureole. "Fuck, you're so bloody gorgeous when you come."

Hermione felt heat rush to her face – not that Draco would notice; she was already hot and flushed, little tendrils of hair sticking to her forehead and cheeks. "Am I?" she asked almost shyly, eyes slipping half-shut, peeking up at him self-consciously through her lashes, the thought of him watching her while she made god knew _what_ facial expressions a little disconcerting.

"Oh Merlin, yes." Draco's smirk grew as he twiddled her nipple between finger and thumb, his lips brushing over the corner of Hermione's mouth as he said, "When you're lying there, wriggling on my fingers and begging me for more…like a – a…" Draco paused for a second, thoughtful as Hermione went a brilliant shade of red, and then he grinned like a shark; "Well, it brings a whole new meaning to dirty, filthy, little mudbl–"

"_Draco!_" She shoved at him; unsure whether to dissolve into helpless, embarrassed laughter, or let out an indignant harrumph and thwack him over the head. He fluttered dark lashes at her, eyes unnaturally innocent, and then when her irritation receded, the innocent grey darkened with a wicked intent. He got to his feet, surprisingly graceful, and Hermione extended a hand up to him, let him pull her upright and she crashed into his arms. She went to lay her cheek against his warm chest and meld herself into his tight grip; to concentrate on breathing, and letting the shivering aftershocks between her legs die down, but Draco had other plans. He tilted her face up to his and kissed her forehead lightly, and then spun her around to face her narrow bed.

"Over the bed," Draco demanded-asked-pleaded with a strained edge to his voice, and Hermione smiled dazedly and fell forward over the edge of the bed; hands planted firmly on her bedspread, feet shoulder-width apart on the floor.

"Like this?"

"_Y-yes_." He sounded like there was a two-ton weight sitting on his chest; hoarse and breathless, and Hermione let her head fall forward, hair tumbling around her face in a thick brown curtain as she waggled her bum playfully; experimenting. Draco inhaled sharply and then let out a choked, strangled sound, and then he was tugging at her soaked cotton knickers, ripping them unceremoniously down her legs, hand sliding over her bum, fingertips trailing ticklishly between her bum cheeks and Hermione pressed her lips together hard to hold in a giggle at the sensation.

"Merlin, I love your arse," Draco murmured hoarsely, and Hermione smiled behind her curtain of hair; going up on tiptoes as she sank down onto her elbows, and Draco made another strangled sound.

"_Fuck,_" he said, one stark, choked word, and then his hand was splayed flat and warm on Hermione's back, pushing her face into the bedspread, his feet nudging at her lower legs, guiding them together. There was an urgent haste to his movements, and Hermione's heart skittered and jumped, her hands fisting in the bedspread as Draco's hand disappeared from her back. She waited for a few seconds, thrilling with nervous anticipation – they hadn't done it like _this_ yet, _this _was something new, and new was a little scary, in Hermione's opinion at least – and she heard him swear, heard the thud and crumple of heavy fabric as, she assumed, Draco succeeded in kicking his jeans off. And then something pushed between her thighs, just beneath her bum, slid between her sopping wet folds, and pressed so, so torturously slow into her.

It should have been easy for him to slide in; Hermione was wet and slick, and only Draco's hand – gripping her hip now – stopped her from pushing herself back and impaling herself fully on his cock. Except then he did push further in and she gasped and her eyes went wide. He felt bigger – bigger, or she was tighter, and just as she thought that dazedly, dragging in breath and adjusting to the incredible, perfect fullness she felt, Draco hissed and gasped, "_Shit_, Hermione. So fucking _tight_,"

Hermione shivered all over and whimpered, rocked back into him and provoked him into moving faster, harder. Draco thrust deep and it ached so deliciously, her bum bumping back into him as he jerked into her, the bedsprings squeaking a faint protest, listening to her ragged breaths, and Draco's stifled moans, his stream of low, incoherent compliments. _So tight. Fucking – perfect. Merlin. So fucking sexy. _At one point he leaned forward and growled in her ear, "Do you like that?" with obscene intonations, and although Hermione huffed a breath that was almost-but-not-_quite_ a laugh and just nodded, made a shy sound of assent, the way he said it sent bolts of white hot lust through her.

He'd corrupted her. Although, to be fair, Hermione thought with her forehead pressed into the bed, little shameless wails jerked from her lips with each thrust, her body from bellybutton to mid-thigh a sea of delicious, exquisite pleasure, that she had rather corrupted him too. Infected him with her Gryffindor nobility – not, Hermione thought as Draco pulled away, flipping her over and wrapping her legs around him, that he didn't already have nobility in him. He buried his face against one breast eagerly, teeth nipping, mouth sucking and she knew it was going to mark her, and she loved that. Her hand automatically reached down between them and took hold of Draco's erection, guided it into her, _wanting_ him like nothing else in the world, and he groaned happily against her breast as he sank home.

# # #

_Author's Notes:_ This chapter was going to be longer, but it was going to end up so long I decided to chop it here. So, who guessed that Lucius was the father of Pansy's baby? And Tonks has had her baby – yay! Who wants to see an incredibly reluctant and awkward Draco holding Teddy? I know I do :D Anyway, what did you think? Leave me a _review _and let me know :)

For some reason I always find the ends of stories really hard to write, like my brain subconsciously doesn't want it to end, which may be why my updates aren't coming quite so fast. Sorry about that! But at the same time, I am looking forward to getting this wrapped up and starting on _The Just World Fallacy_.

Enormous thanks to everyone who has reviewed, especially to those I have been slack and haven't PM'ed yet (or alternately, can't remember if I have or not, haha):

420Goddess, write-this-song, Kat, Launigsiae, Iseult, Jlopee, ExCareer552, Asttyrii, Cinnamin, Lovelydove21, BelleBelles, Kat, MissRose727, DTOXIFIEDdreamer, Rogue, Bandgeek252, ndzfinest, Risk, Faye, Soxylady, and assorted anon guests.

You're all wonderful :)

Oh, and if anyone wanted to make me a pretty banner/book cover thingy I would just about wet myself with excitement. I have discovered that I am…not very good at it, to say the least. I have a (hopefully not borked) link to two banners I threw together in the story summary, if you want to take a gander. They're very artistic for me, which should tell you just how amazingly _un_artistic I am. Although Draco's arm disturbs me slightly, which must mean it isn't half-bad :p


	38. Be My Unintended

**Author's Note: **And finally I'm back, after a very long hiatus! I've been busy with life stuff, had all my writing time and inspiration taken over by working on an original novel, and most recently was full-time editing a family member's manuscript. It may take me a while to get back into the swing of things after so long away, but I'm back!

Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, favourited and followed while I've been gone. I've been very slack in replying to everyone, but I have appreciated it immensely! Now on to the story…

_Enjoy!_

_**Be My Unintended**_

_You could be the one who listens_

_To all my deepest inquisitions_

_You could be the one, I'll always love_

_I'll be there as soon as I can_

_But I'm busy mending broken_

_Pieces of the life, I had before_

_[Unintended, Muse]_

Afterwards they lay glued sweat-sticky together, with her sprawled half over him, her fingers tracing ticklishly over his shoulder, her face squashed against his chest while he took lazy enjoyment in kneading her arse.

"Good?" she mumbled into his chest, and Draco felt her smile, and summed up a low 'mmm' of agreement. It had been good; fucking incredible. But then it always was; it was so _easy_ to find a rhythm with Hermione, so comfortable, so _right_, like they had done it hundreds of times instead of…he tried to calculate in his sex-muddled brain…a dozen and a half? Two dozen? He yawned, smoothing his hand down her back, from the top of her spine to the swell of her arse. Merlin, at least he knew she was eating enough. She was a solid, heavy weight on him; no thin waif, but with luscious curves and gentle dips, and, unexpectedly, lean muscle beneath her soft skin.

For a while, Draco just lay there, basking in the warm daze of his afterglow, thinking of nothing but the feel of her draped over him, and of what they had done. Brief post-orgasmic bliss, and then reality began slowly seeping back in. Unwelcome and chilling, draining the limp, sated happiness out of him. Draco could _feel_ his muscles tense again, knotting and tightening, stress clawing him back in as he thought of his father and Pansy, and how much it hurt. It was surprising, just how _much_ it hurt, how betrayed and disillusioned he felt. Draco had thought that there was nothing worse his father could do, no lower his father could sink in Draco's opinion after mutilating him, but Draco had been wrong. He had thought he had seen the worst of his father, but he hadn't; there had been still more deluded hopes that his father could shatter. _Had_ shattered now, with the knowledge that he had violated one of Draco's oldest friends.

Draco thought perhaps he still loved his father, and the possibility sickened him. Hermione must have felt him begin to tense, because she wriggled so she was looking up at his face, her chin pillowed on her wrist over his chest, her expression one of sex-drowsy worry and sympathy. He sighed and shut his eyes, ran his fingers through her loose mass of hair, idly teasing out the tangles with nimble fingers.

"I wish I could think of something to say," Hermione said quietly, "To make it better. But…"

"Yeah." There was nothing she could say. Nothing anyone could say. It was what it was, and Draco would learn to live with it. It was, after all, just one more metaphorical pile of rubble to add to the ruins of his life.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Would it help?" Draco arched an eyebrow sceptically, nearly going cross-eyed trying to focus on Hermione, who had wriggled so that her cheek was on his sternum, her fingers smoothing through his hair in a slow, repetitive pattern that was soothing, rather than irritating.

"I don't know. Generally speaking, talking about things that are troubling you is supposed to help. Muggle psychologists mostly believe that expressing your emotions is a positive thing, as long as expressing doesn't turn into unhealthy dwelling on –" Hermione began, and Draco shot her a disparaging lookdown his nose; he wasn't exactly in the mood for a lecture on Muggle culture and practices right now. Who gave a flying fuck what Muggle psycho-whatsits thought? Hermione stopped mid-sentence and bit her lip, made an apologetic face.

"At any rate, it can't hurt, can it?" she offered hopefully, her voice gentle but painfully optimistic, and Draco frowned at her, sighed and stared up at the ceiling.

"I hate him. I hate what he's done," Draco said shortly, each word a hiss of built up pressure released, and he had to be careful what he said, how much he said, or all that pressure would escape in an explosion.

"I fucking worshipped him. He was – is – my father. And now, it's like everywhere I turn he's _there_. Tainting everything with his stupid, pointless evil and…hurting people – people I… _Shit_. And I'm his bloody progeny. I was his heir, until he decided…" He trailed off, staring out the window through a gap in the curtains, at the bleak grey sky. "Isn't there some old Muggle saying about the sins of the father? I seem to recall…" He trailed off again. Their Muggle Studies teacher had been killed in front of him, begging Snape to save her. That was not something that Draco needed to remember, or that Hermione needed to be reminded of. Too late. Hermione made a harsh sound in the back of her throat, forehead furrowing and eyes far away, before she shook her head and refocused on him.

"Yes, it is, but I don't believe that, Draco. No one does. It's a silly, superstitious old saying, and it has absolutely no bearing on real life, so stop this _stupid _self-flagellation," Hermione said sharply, and Draco twisted his head and stared at her in surprise. He had been expecting sympathy and understanding from Hermione, not her staring disapprovingly at him, her brown eyes flaring with frustration and her mouth firmly down-turned.

"You are not your father! You aren't responsible for what he has done. You have _nothing_ to do with what he has done. So stop fixating on that, because I know that's not why you're so upset."

Draco shoved Hermione gently off him and sat up, and she followed suit; naked and beautiful, leaning on one hand, legs tucked half under her as she faced him with a determined expression. He lost his train of thought and forgot to be indignant and annoyed as her breasts wobbled deliciously. She snapped her fingers in front of his face and he glared at her.

"_What?_"

"Why are you so upset about Lucius, Draco?"

He gave her a disbelieving stare, a tension thrumming in his chest, his breath tight, and his pulse drumming under Hermione's sweeping thumb. "Really? You have to ask me that?"

"Stop going on about how you feel so terrible about what he's _done_ as a Death Eater – because that's not what hurts you, and you know it, I know it… Tell me the truth, not some pretty lie all done up in a bow to fool me and to try to fool yourself. I'm not that naïve anymore Draco; I _know_ you, I can see what you're doing."

"It's not a lie!"

"It's not the truth either! Draco…he hurt _you_. Not just through what he's done, but _you_. I –"

Hermione didn't understand. Draco didn't want to think about himself, about his own pain, his own stupid, childish hurt. He wanted to be furious; he wanted to be filled with the safety of cold anger over what his father had done to Pansy. "Yes, he hurt me, but –"

"Everything he taught you was wrong. What he tried to make you into was wrong. He hurt you. Not just by…your hand," she said, and he opened his eyes; her fingers hovered over his mutilated arm, her mouth was drawn into a tight line, eyes darkened as she stared at the mutilation. Draco drew shaky breath, listened without wanting to as Hermione went on, "But before then. Your whole life, everything is gone, because of him. He lied to you. He tried to twist you. Everything he taught you was a lie. He left you with nothing. And finally, when you thought that he'd hurt you so much, he couldn't hurt you any more."

Hermione's hovering fingers curled gently around his stump, her eyes boring into him, her voice a soft whisper that he couldn't shut out even though he wanted to. Merlin, he didn't want to hear this. He didn't want to have to listen to this. Her words were needles that pierced him through, precise and sharp and painful, because they were the truth.

Draco clenched his jaw, desperately trying to hold back tears he really, really didn't want to shed as Hermione continued, "Just when you thought your father couldn't hurt you worse than he already had…he did. He hurt you again, by harming someone that you care about. But it's not empathy for Pansy that you're feeling, mostly – it's for yourself. You're hurting not for Pansy, but for what your father hurting Pansy makes _you _feel."

Draco didn't understand what she was trying to say. That he was a selfish git? Because _that_ he already knew. He was painfully aware of _that_. He fell back on the secure safety of try to shut the conversation down before it went any further. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does," Hermione contradicted him calmly despite the slightest slur to her words, her eyes still locked to his.

"No it doesn't!" Draco's chest was aching and his muscles were tense and knotted, a headache beginning to throb behind his eyes. Why couldn't she leave well enough alone?

"You're allowed to be hurt. He's your father, and your whole life he taught you to believe in things that in the end have only hurt you! He's betrayed you, in every way possible! Of course it matters! Of course it hurts! Acknowledge that!" She was flushed and her breath was coming hard, face set in lines of stubborn anger, and Draco wanted to shake her, to slap her, to make her shut up. How was this supposed to help? Grinding everything his father had done back in Draco's face – how was that supposed to be fucking helpful?

"Are you trying to make me feel better, or worse?" he bit out furiously, and Hermione made a quiet, bitter chuckle and smiled at him – actually fucking smiled, even if it was a faint, sad sort of smile, and Merlin, Draco wanted to _hurt_ her. He lunged forward and grabbed her wrist, ripping her hand away from his maimed arm, holding it hard – too hard – as he leaned toward her, their noses nearly touching.

"Leave it. I don't want to talk any more, Hermione. I don't know what little game you're trying to play, but you're no Slytherin, and it's not working," he spat out, releasing her wrist sharply and flinging the blankets back to get out of her bed, and retreat to…_fuck_. If Pansy was still in the cellar, he had nowhere to go, except back to the fucking porch. Merlin, Draco hated everything. Hermione shifted quickly on the bed, putting herself between him and escape, shoving him hard back against the pillows, and he hissed and glared up at her.

"I'm not playing a _game_, Draco! I just want you to stop bottling everything up, and hiding your feelings behind a mask of feeling bad for Pansy, feeling ashamed that he's your father, feeling somehow responsible because you're his son. Those –"

"Those are true! They're the fucking truth!"

She sat back and shook her head. "That's not the point. You act like that's all there is to it. But it's not. You hate him because he hurt _you_, not because he hurt Pansy. You're hurting because he hurt _you_."

"I think that's self-evident, Hermione. Obviously my father has hurt me. But that happened months ago, and I've accepted it; I fail to see why we have to talk about it now."

"Accepted it?" She was dismissive, disbelieving, and Draco sighed and rubbed his hand over his face, wishing that for once in her life, Hermione would just know when to shut up. She didn't. He gazed out through a narrow crack in the curtains as she talked, watching the heavy grey clouds skid past, the day fittingly dismal, a storm crackling in the air.

"You haven't accepted it. You can't. Because you love him, and you haven't accepted _that_." She sounded so fucking sure, so confident of herself, and Draco let out a rasping sigh and grimaced, trying not to let her words settle into him, trying to throw them off and not think about it; because his father raped Pansy, his father cut off Draco's hand, and how could you love someone who did those things? How could you still love them and not be some sort of twisted monster yourself? Hermione had planted seeds in his head, and now Draco couldn't stop thinking about what he tried so hard to repress for so long.

"I want to kill him," he said softly, staring out the gap in the curtains, at the rain-bloated clouds darkening the sky. His bones felt heavy and his tongue thick in his mouth; he was still a little drunk, and so was she, Draco realised.

"Do you?" Hermione asked lightly, wriggling closer to him, hand sliding up his arm, over the Mark and back down to his wrist, and Draco didn't shake her hand off, even though a part of him wanted to.

"Yes," Draco answered her, letting his head fall back against the wall and his eyes slip shut. He _did_ wish his father was dead, but his voice wavered as Hermione's fingers slid warm and light over the inside of Draco's arm. He used to tuck Draco in at night. He bought Draco his first broom. He…

"It's all right to love him, you know. It's natural."

"I don't," Draco grated out, squeezing his eyes so tightly shut he saw bursts of light on his eyelids, feeling the tendons in his arm shift under Hermione's hand as he tensed involuntarily. Everything felt too sharp, too cutting; everything she was saying was too fucking _accurate_, and Draco didn't want to feel those things. He was a Slytherin. Cunning, sensible, ruthless – not some noble, blunt, open Gryffindor like she was.

"It would be stranger if you didn't love him," she pointed out calmly, as if it was a fact, a foregone conclusion, and there was no point in arguing with her. Merlin, she was such a know-it-all, and the worst thing was, of course, that she was bloody well _right_. And yet still Draco argued.

"I _don't_," he retorted like a stubborn child. Hermione just couldn't leave it alone. She had to pick and _pick_, and peel away the scabbing until Draco felt raw and wounded all over again.

"Well, if you _did_, hypothetically, then that would be perfectly natural. Just so that you know."

"_I don't_," Draco snapped out again, and Hermione sighed quietly, defeated.

"Sorry I ever brought it up, then." A hint of pique.

"Hermione…" This wasn't what he fucking wanted. Why did it always have to be so Merlin damned _hard?_ It wasn't fair, he thought, opening his eyes and meeting hers, pleading with her silently to just _understand_. She sat folded up naked by his side, a corner of the bed sheet draped lightly over her lap, staring at him with stifled frustration printed on her face. He couldn't do this. He couldn't deal with how he felt; _she_ might be able to unzip herself and let all her innards spill over the bed between them, let everything out and acknowledge it, face it – but Draco couldn't. He had never done it before; never told anyone but Hermione his real feelings, his vulnerabilities, and the few times he'd done that had been hard enough. There was no way he could talk to her about things he could hardly bring himself to acknowledge.

Draco wasn't sure if Hermione understood all the feeling he tried to pack into his pleading, tired utterance of her name, because she looked away, her eyes turning down to her fingers, dancing slow and careful over his Mark. She was silent, though, and he was silent; both of them sitting in the dim, grey light that filtered in through the curtains, her hand on his arm, and he trying not to think about the fact that she was right. The quiet stretched on and on, growing thicker and harder to break with every passing minute, but Draco didn't leave, because Hermione was still outlining his Dark Mark as if it wasn't a hideous symbol of evil and mistakes, a tenderness in her touch that made a lump lodge itself in Draco's throat.

"I love you," Hermione said at last with a quiet weight to the three words, and Draco watched her press her lips to his Mark, and look up with him with those warm brown eyes. Her gaze held everything he wouldn't have expected; love and comfort and compassion, and Draco realised that Hermione was the only person who had seen him as he truly was, and loved him anyway. Perhaps his mother did, but if she did, she certainly didn't show it very well. Hermione was waiting, and Draco's throat was choked, and embarrassingly enough, he found himself unable to speak, unable to say it in return.

Draco's eyes slid away from hers, a flush rising in his cheeks, and then he looked back to her, licking his lips and trying to force himself to say the words without feeling like he was going to crack up. But he couldn't. Hermione's mouth quirked into a slight smile; those lips, soft and smiling, little faint lines bracketing the smile that would deepen with age, and if he ever got to see that happen it would be a miracle… He only had her for a little while. For such a short time, and if they one the war their lives stretched out, on and on and on, but they would be bisected from each other. Draco would go to Azkaban, and he wouldn't let her wait. He would do _one_ fucking selfless thing in his life at least, and that would be it. He wouldn't let her wait, and so he would never get to kiss the Hermione that had smile lines around her mouth, the beginnings of crows' feet, and strands of grey in her wild hair.

Was it possible to lose something that he had never had? The loss of potential? He didn't know, but it was suddenly desperately important that Hermione knew how he felt. Draco sat forward, in one swift motion sliding his hand into her hair to cradle the back of her neck, pulling her toward him, and kissing her. Gently at first, but then hard and desperate, crushing their lips together, Hermione's soft, warm mouth just as urgent as his, her tongue flicking out and meeting his, sending welcome heat through him in a sharp thrill. Her arms curled up tight and fierce around his neck, and when they finally pulled apart for breath, nipples brushing against his chest with every little gasp she took, Draco told her.

"I love you. More than I should. But Merlin, I fucking well do." Draco was stupid and he said too much, still too drunk, obviously, and as soon as he said it, he wished he could take it back. He mentally crossed his fingers, and hoped to hell Hermione was too kiss-dazed and happy at hearing 'I love you' to notice his stupid damned slip. His fingers dragged firmly down her cheek, breathing in the scent of her, and she smelt like sweat and sex and the faintest trace of shampoo, and her forehead furrowed. She opened her mouth, and Draco could see the question hanging unspoken in the air. _More than you should? What do you mean, more than you should?_ But thank fucking Merlin, Hermione thought better of it, and let it go with a sigh and a small smile, her hand folding over his, where it cupped the curve of her cheek.

# # #

By silent agreement, they lay curled together without speaking for a while, blankets drawn up over them, limbs entwined. Hermione wished she knew what Draco was thinking; wished he would have talked to her openly, instead of denying everything. Perhaps she didn't have a right to know what was going on in his head, but Merlin she wanted to know so badly. Part of it was plain curiosity, she admitted to herself shamefacedly, but mostly she wanted to know because she loved him and she wanted to help him. How would she ever cope if she were in Draco's situation? To find out that her own father had not only taught her the wrong things all her life and physically, irreparably harmed her, but also violated one of her friends? A shudder rolled through her. Hermione couldn't imagine even _beginning_ to deal with that. To be fair, she realised that she might not be very eager to talk about it either, if she were in his place; it was an overwhelming sort of thing to face up to.

Not for the first time, Hermione wished that the wizarding world had psychologists. The closest equivalent that the magical community had was Healers, and although they had some knowledge of grief and trauma, they were not really adequately equipped to counsel someone through any emotional issues. And Draco sorely needed that; oh who was she kidding, so did _she_. By the end of this bloody war, they would _all_ need years of therapy to be anywhere near normal, and unfortunately they couldn't romp into a Muggle psychologist's office unless they wanted to be declared in the throes of a psychotic break and committed. Sometimes Hermione thought that the wizarding community needed a good overhaul – they could learn so much from Muggles these days.

Muggles were capable of so much. They had leapt forward in technological advances, scientific knowledge, and societal change, and the wizarding world was still trapped in the past. For all that they could use magic, in many ways Muggles were far more powerful than wizards and witches, and the wizarding world could learn a lot from the people that they hated, disparaged, or treated as quaint curiosities. Hermione wondered idly if perhaps after the war, she would be able to get a job at the Ministry and effect changes from within. But there was no point in making plans, and dreaming about what might be; the future was far from certain, and dreams were just that – dreams, ephemeral and insubstantial.

Since Draco had turned up on the doorstep of the Godric's Hollow house, his mother in tow, reality had begun to seep back into Hermione's life. Since she, Harry and Ron had arrived at Godric's; after the torture at the Malfoy Manor; after Griphook stole the sword; after life had ceased to be focused on defeating Voldemort by destroying horcruxes, and become consumed by the long, bloody war, Hermione had gone numb. It hadn't been healthy, shutting herself away and retreating, distancing herself from everything as best she could. Tutoring Ginny at the kitchen table while the rest of the Order was out on missions. Being afraid of everything. Closing herself up inside a shell of bearable numbness that made the horrors of war unable to really touch _her_.

And then Draco had arrived, and reality had forced its way through the cracks in Hermione's shell in all its painful, vivid glory. Since that day at the Manor, when the Snatchers had caught her, Ron and Harry, and… Well, since then, the most normal Hermione had felt was when she and Draco were in the cellar alone together. Before Karkaroff had arrived with Krum and Nikolai and Yuri and the others, but after Hermione and Draco had started their secret, tentative relationship, when they would play board games and discuss Muggle books and argue and sometimes snog; when Hermione would come back from missions and take hot chocolate into the cellar and Draco and she would analyse what had happened. She had found hope again, and hope was one of the most dangerous things there was. It meant you could be hurt. She lost track of her thoughts, dozing for a time, half asleep and warm in Draco's arms.

A long while later, Hermione opened her eyes and rolled to face Draco, nose to nose, tracing her fingers down the side of his face. His lashes fluttered, and then his smoky grey irises fixed on hers.

"Hmm?" he asked lazily, tucking Hermione closer to him with one arm. She sighed, kissing the tip of his nose and then untangling herself from him, sitting up reluctantly, eyes widening at the numbers on the novelty clock Ron had gotten her. They had the meeting coming up in a few hours – they'd spent half the day in bed together. Damnit. She tried to organise her thoughts, the fogginess of drink and dozing still clinging to her like cobwebs.

"We should get up," she said at last, groaning at the thought.

"Don't want to," he whined, nuzzling his face against her thigh, pale hair tickling her skin.

"You," she poked him in the chest. "Need to go check on Pansy. You just…left her in your room. After…your…well, conversation with her, and how it ended, I imagine she might need someone to talk to, still."

Hermione scrambled out of the bed, quickly dressing and trying to force her hair into some semblance of order, while Draco lay on the bed eyes shut, covers firmly pulled up to his neck.

"Well?" she asked him pointedly, and he sighed, cracked his eyes open and glared at her.

"I really don't want to go and talk to Pansy."

"Draco! She needs someone's support, and frankly I doubt she'd want mine. You're all she's got." Hermione still felt so _strange_ feeling sympathy for Pansy Parkinson, but there it was. She did. She glared back at Draco, waiting.

"I know, I know. I'm a horrible, selfish bastard, but fuck, Hermione…I don't bloody want to. How the hell is a conversation like that supposed to go? How do I support the girl my father bloody…raped?"

"Hopefully somewhat better than you freaking out, throwing up, and then fleeing," Hermione said, not unkindly, and Draco's frown deepened, a flush of shame darkening his cheeks as he no doubt thought of how he'd just abandoned Pansy in his room.

"That's not fair," he said, but he got out of bed with a sulky expression, naked, and stretching like a cat. He was leanly muscled, pale, and absolutely gorgeous, and Hermione felt a rush of arousal, perving at him blatantly and then blushing like a schoolgirl when he noticed halfway through dressing and raised an eyebrow at her.

"Are you sure we have to go downstairs? We could just stay up here a little longer…" he persuaded, in nowt but his jeans, tugging Hermione into his arms and nuzzling at her neck, placing little nibbling, sucking kisses on the sensitive skin there. Hermione nearly gave in, was so tempted to, but with a sigh she summoned her willpower and pushed Draco gently away.

"_Yes_, we have to. I want to go catch up with everyone, and have another cuddle with Teddy, and you need to go…make sure Pansy's all right."

"Lucky me," he said dryly, slipping on his shirt and waiting for Hermione to button it, a faint smile on his lips as she automatically began doing so.

"One day you're going to have to learn to do that yourself," she told Draco as she did up the last button and smoothed the material over his shoulders neatly. So domestic. So normal. It was in moments like these that Hermione could nearly forget about everything else, and pretend they were just a normal Muggle couple with no knowledge of the war.

"But not just yet?" Draco asked hopefully, and she chuckled, going up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

"No, not just yet."

It was strange walking downstairs with fingers linked; being openly together, however discreetly, was going to take a while to get used to. It was even stranger when they paused at the bottom of the stairs and Draco visibly steeled himself, before ducking his head to kiss her firmly on the mouth.

"Good luck with Pansy."

"Thanks. You too. Luck, I mean," he said vaguely, distracted now, eyes darting toward the dining room and the trapdoor to the cellar there, all bound up and jittery with nervous tension.

"What, good luck with Teddy? I doubt I'll need it, somehow," Hermione said teasingly, and he snorted in self-deprecation.

"Yeah, well, you might. To, um…not drop him, or…whatever," he tried lamely, prickly and still distracted, and Hermione gave him one last kiss before they parted ways; she going into the lounge, and he the dining room. She paused in the doorway and watched as he disappeared into the cellar in search of Pansy, feeling full of hope, and so, so frighteningly vulnerable with it. Maybe that was why he refused to hope. But she couldn't. Couldn't live like that anymore. She had to believe in something, even if that _something_ was her relationship with a maimed ex-Death Eater who'd called her a mudblood at school, and would stand trial if they ever won the war. She sighed and turned away, going in search of a fat little baby to cuddle; she had discovered earlier that it was impossible to feel bad while snuggling little Teddy.

# # #

The next update will be coming…soon, I hope. I shall endeavour to do better, and not have anymore long breaks! Reviews please! ::hopeful face::


	39. We Will Live

Author's Note: Thank you to my lovely reviewers! I could kiss you all! It's so, so, so nice to know that people are excited to have the story back, and are still keen on reading it even after my horribly long hiatus. You're wonderful! 38. We Will Live

_In our days we will say_

_What our ghosts will say…_

_We gave the world what it saw fit_

_And what'd we get?_

_Like stubborn boys with big green eyes_

_We'll see everything…_

_[Resurrection Fern, Iron and Wine]_

Hermione was ensconced on the couch, Ron and Harry sprawled at her feet, Cho cuddled up to Ron, and Ginny perched on the couch beside Hermione, her legs hooked comfortably – for her, anyway – over Harry's shoulders. It would have been perfect if Draco had been there sitting at the other side of Hermione, instead of Luna. But despite the lack of him, she was surrounded by friends; enfolded in their presence, and there was togetherness in that, which outweighed everything else. There was still a fragility in the air though; the tension of war, ever-present, lingered beneath the warmth and companionship that surrounded Hermione. Ron's head leant against her knee, and Harry's hand around her ankle, anchoring her, like they felt they needed to make solid the bonds between them. It was…nice.

Tonks came down with Teddy and settled in a rocking chair to feed him, Cho and Ginny chatted idly about the news and gossip in the letters they'd gotten from friends, Luna pored through a Muggle book on mythological creatures, and Ron and Harry watched _The Terminator_ with the volume turned down low, the video flickering now and then as the low level of magic leaking into the lounge disrupted it. Hermione found herself watching Teddy instead of the telly, a little bundle cosied up in Tonks' arms, the currently bright pink fluff of his hair the only part of him visible from across the room. He was so small. So vulnerable and precious.

"Do you think it'll be over before he's old enough to remember it?" she wondered softly, half-talking to herself. The others glanced at her, faces worried for some reason. She supposed she had sounded rather odd, but then she felt a little odd, truth be told. "The war, I mean," she continued, too low for Tonks to hear; it wasn't a topic a new mother needed to hear about. The future of the world her son would be living in. "Do you think Teddy will be taught about it when he's old enough? Like some distant historical time that has no bearing on his life, on reality? Or will we still be fighting and hiding and struggling to survive?"

She didn't mention the other possibility; that they could lose the war, and Teddy, his parents, and everyone else in this house could be killed horribly. But they all thought of it, the possibility looming over their heads and drenching the silence between them. There was a long, solemn moment, filled with uneasy fear, before Harry cleared his throat and shifted, clearly uncomfortable, his fingers pressing tighter into Hermione's ankle as he moved. They waited for him to say something hopeful, or profound, or determined, breath caught in their throats. Harry always knew what to say to make everything seem possible.

But, "I hope so," was all he said in the end, quiet and pathetic. The Boy Who Lived, the figurehead of the war, the banner they all rallied behind. And all he could summon was a weary sentiment of cliché hope, with no meaning behind it. It was obvious that he didn't even believe it himself; Harry had never been a good liar. There was none of his trademark stubborn determination left in him right now – he was worn down by the endless fighting, and lack of progress. The stagnation took its toll on everyone, no matter how much they tried to stay positive. A funeral pall fell over the group. _If even Harry doesn't believe we can do it…_they were all thinking it, and Hermione knew it wasn't fair to him, to have that responsibility on his shoulders, and yet she was thinking it too, wasn't she. Luna broke the silence, dreamy and almost painfully optimistic as always.

"Of course it'll be over. Isn't that why we're fighting? For the future? For Teddy? How can we not succeed?" Luna said it with such unshakeable assurance, as if she _knew_, and Hermione envied the girl her certainty. She summoned a smile, nodding at Luna.

"Of course," Hermione echoed Luna, and Luna beamed at her and stuck her nose back in her book, returning to the section on mermaids, which the younger girl seemed to find absolutely fascinating. Muggle ideas about magical creatures couldn't be further from the truth, for the most part, and Luna thought Muggle conceptions of magical creatures were hilarious and enthralling. Hermione thought, perhaps a little meanly, that it must be nice for Luna to be _right_ about a creature's existence for once.

"Won't be long before we get the next horcrux, though," Ron said with an attempt at bright optimism, fingers playing through Cho's long, dark hair, his head a heavy comfort against Hermione's leg.

"_If_ this plan works…" Harry added darkly. "_If_ we can find what we need and get it from the Muggle military, and _if_ we can get the element of surprise, and the gas or whatever takes effect before the goblins can react. _If_ we can get to the vault, and the horcrux is still there."

"Getting onto a military compound or wherever should be easy – it's just Muggles. Just _imperio_ a soldier, or use polyjuice or something. We only need a couple of people to get into the place, grab all the stuff we need, and apparate out again. Simple. As for the rest, well, we'll figure it out. Haven't we always?" Ron said confidently, and then turned his attention back to the telly, turning it up and tuning out everyone else. He glued himself to the movie, still utterly in awe of Muggle 'moving pictures' and Hermione smiled at him with tolerant amusement. Typical Ron.

"The problem is, that there aren't a lot of _agents_ that will quickly incapacitate people without being fatal," Ginny said, with the self-importance of fresh knowledge in her tone. "Most Muggle militaries don't have that kind of _nerve agent_, as they call it, because they don't really work that well. Not unless you want to kill the people you're using it on."

"I don't think we want to kill anyone," Hermione said nervously, heart sinking. "The goblins are just trying to stay neutral. They might be a lot of bloody-minded, arrogant, pig-headed bastards, but they don't deserve to _die_ for that. So, what, there aren't a lot of options then, Ginny? I thought knockout gas was common…I mean, it's always in stories – Muggle stories, I mean. Obviously. And movies."

"I've been helping Lupin research it this past week. I went to a Muggle library – funny places, those, although it's rather nice not to have the books try to bite you, or scream at you – and no, there aren't really many options. Apparently not a lot of countries have what they call 'chemical weapons' that have an incapacitating enough effect, which don't kill people horribly too. So they generally don't deal in them. I've got no idea where we'd get the sort of stuff we need – Muggles don't exactly leave it lying about, not even on military bases and the like," Ginny admitted. "But Lupin, Kingsley and the others are still calling the meeting tonight, so I guess they must have some sort of plan." The redhead looked hopefully around at the others, Harry's hand smoothing over her thigh reassuringly. "Right?" Ginny asked, and Hermione nodded with a firmness she didn't feel.

"Right. They'll have a plan. They always do."

They talked a while longer, Tonks drifting out of the room with Teddy, and Luna leaving shortly after that, and then it was just them. Not quite the Golden Trio anymore, with Cho and Ginny there too, but that was okay. Things changed. It was part of life; inevitable, and Hermione knew they weren't ever going to be the Golden Trio again. It would never be like it had been at school. Now they'd all paired off, it would be the six of them – the Golden Sextet, she thought, and laughed quietly to herself. Draco would act disgusted at the idea of unavoidably belonging to the group through his connection to Hermione, but she suspected he might actually like it, somewhere underneath. The feeling of belonging.

"So where's Draco?" Ginny began quietly under the cover of the explosions on the telly as a particularly interesting part of the movie caught the boy's attention. The redhead had a very Slytherin smirk on her face, putting her head close to Hermione's, so the boys didn't hear her murmurs. "Why isn't he here cuddled up with you? Now that you aren't hiding your…_relationship_…from everyone, there's no reason for him to hide away. Is there?" The girl knew exactly how to poke and prod and push buttons, without even necessarily intending to. There was nothing but innocent teasing in Ginny's eyes, but her tone still made Hermione bristle.

"Ginny…" she began warningly. She didn't want to get into a girly gossip about Draco and their relationship; it seemed childish and somehow a betrayal of his trust, and besides, she _really_ didn't want to gossip about him in front of Harry and Ron, no matter how distracted they might seem.

"Oh come on," Ginny nudged Hermione, smirking away still. "Are you two fighting again?" the girl prodded, contorting with curiosity and concern mingled, and Hermione's mouth flattened and her shoulders tensed. She gave in – a little.

"No, we're not. We're perfectly fine. He's with Pansy, at the moment, if you must know." She was sharp and prickly, but the acid in her voice slid off Ginny like oil off a duck's back as the redhead wrinkled up her nose at Pansy's name.

"Ugh. Parkinson. Horrible _bitch_. I can't believe she's on our side now – or at least, _not_ on the other side. She's been moping around since she got here, too snobby to talk to any of us except Lupin and mum. Spent most of her time down in the cellar in your _boyfriend's _room, and had a Healer in and out all week 'checking on her', although Merlin knows why. It's hardly as if being a werewolf requires Healer's visits." Ginny made a disgusted face and shivered dramatically. "It's just _wrong_; Pansy Parkinson, under the Order's protection – _living _with us."

"Maybe she thinks you all hate her, and that's why she's keeping to herself. It might not be her being snobby," Hermione said without judgement, a cautious, neutral statement, but still a defence of Pansy, and Merlin, it felt so strange to stick up for the other girl.

"Yeah, well, she'd be right about that," Ginny huffed, slouching back on the couch and scowling, arms folded over her chest. "We've got no bloody reason to like her, do we? You can't tell me _you_ like her?"

"No, I don't like her much either, Ginny. But maybe we should give her a chance, before we write her off completely. Maybe she's…different now."

"Really? You're going to defend her?" Ginny asked in disbelief, staring hard at Hermione, eyes boring into her. "After everything she's done? Everything she's gone along with? Just because she got scared or it finally stopped being fun for her, doesn't mean she's changed, and become a good person. She's just looking out for herself, like Pansy bloody Parkinson always does. Selfish cow."

Hermione shrugged, ducking her gaze, eyes darkening with shadows as she thought about how Lucius Malfoy had raped Pansy and impregnated her on purpose. She imagined all too clearly how horrible, how absolutely _hellish_ life must have been for Pansy, over the last several months. How wrenching and degrading and shattering it would be to be turned into a toy to be used at someone else's pleasure. Turned into livestock, for breeding purposes – and then bitten by Greyback on top of that, just to add more traumatic physical and emotional scars to those that Lucius had inflicted. She lifted her eyes to Ginny's.

"She's been through a lot, Ginny. I'm sure she's not a good person exactly. She _is_ still Pansy. But we don't have to be awful to her. She's not going to change if we don't give her a chance…"

"Oh _bollocks_," Ginny interrupted decisively, and Hermione sighed, not wanting to fight with the other girl. But Draco had left the Death Eaters for much the same reasons as Pansy had, and Hermione couldn't just forget that. When Ginny talked about Pansy like this, she was really talking about Draco too, and that stung Hermione on his behalf. They had all treated Draco exactly the same way as they were treating Pansy now. And all it had taken to tease the goodness in Draco out of him, was one person, treating him like a human being and not a contemptible monster.

She couldn't blame Ginny for disliking Pansy – it was a natural human reaction. Except that things weren't as simple as Ginny wanted them to be; Draco had shown Hermione that so bloody clearly. Life wasn't clear-cut and black and white, it was messy and complex, with different layers and perspectives, and you couldn't blame someone for their choices unless you really, truly knew _why_. Right down underneath everything else _why_.

"Draco left for the same reasons as Pansy," Hermione said at last, heart pounding hard in her chest. She didn't want to argue, but she couldn't just let this slide. "For selfish reasons. To gain protection for himself, and his mother. He didn't defect because of any grand change in his beliefs, but because they were hurting him, and he had to get away before they hurt him any more." Hermione blinked, throat feeling choked, wondering how much she could tell Ginny about Pansy. It wasn't her secret to tell. She settled for a quiet, "They were hurting her too, Ginny."

The other girl gave her a long, odd look. Like she didn't know who Hermione was right now, and she was trying to figure it out in her head – studying Hermione like she was an alien creature. Ginny opened her mouth to retort, brow furrowed with puzzlement and a vague, dawning indignation, and Harry patted her firmly on the leg.

"Let's not have a debate right now, please, Ginny, Hermione? Can't we just watch the movie and relax for once?" There was pleading in his voice and weariness with it, eyes behind his glasses mirroring his tone, and Ginny nodded and kissed Harry's mussed black hair lightly, subsiding. Hermione stared at the screen, but her mind was elsewhere. Thinking about Draco, and wondering how he was coping with his attempt to be supportive of Pansy. Hoping he wasn't getting horribly pissed with the other girl. Wishing that she was brave enough to go down to the cellar and see for herself, but despite what she had just been saying to Ginny, Hermione didn't think Pansy would welcome her sympathy. It was best for her to stay here. She sighed, staring blankly at the screen, Harry's fingers strumming an idle beat on her ankle, her hand resting on Ron's head, trying to lose herself in the warmth of being _home_, with them.

It was awkward like nothing else, sitting there on the end of his bed while Pansy lay back against the pillows, cradling a bottle of booze and staring at him with big, hollow, half-amused eyes. He'd expected her to want to cry on his shoulder or something equally distasteful, and had braced himself for the ordeal of comforting the girl who was weeping over what his father had done to her. He'd steeled himself to face the guilt and shame and utter fucked-up-ness of it. Instead she had been as collected and calm as anyone could be in her situation, although the puffiness around her eyes made it clear she had been crying. But she wasn't crying now; no, now she was playing at superior detachment shot through with a sharp bitterness, and Draco found himself wishing she would just collapse into fountains of messy tears.

He didn't know what to do, or what to say, avoiding her eyes, his throat feeling dry and clogged and his chest tight and aching. Neither of them had said a word since he'd walked in what felt like an hour ago, but was probably only a few minutes. He glanced up at last, fiddling with the sleeve on his right arm, which Hermione had rolled up to just below the elbow so that his stump stuck out. It didn't look appealing, in his mind, but it was less annoying than having the sleeve hanging empty.

"Sorry. About before," he muttered awkwardly, voice tight and still a little raspy and sore from his injury, despite the fact that he'd taken a Muggle painkiller, ibuprofen, before he'd left Hermione's room.

"Come down to soothe your conscience then, not eject me from your room?" Pansy asked, prim and taut, and sipped at the bottle of Muggle vodka, shuddering as the drink slipped down her throat.

"No. I just…it was rude of me to just up and leave you alone in here like that, after what you'd just told me." He looked down at his fingers where they played in the folds of his sleeve. "It was…a shock, and I didn't react well. I…apologise." He said the last very stiffly, and Pansy snorted a humourless laugh, rolling her eyes.

"You really have gone soft, haven't you, Draco, darling? You really _are_ here to soothe your conscience." She shook her head, still chuckling mirthlessly, words slurring and blurring together and eyes unfocused. "These blood traitors and mudbloods must be rubbing off on you." She flashed him a sudden vicious grin. "Well, I know _Granger's_ rubbing herself off on you at least, filthy little whore, but –"

"Pansy…" Fuck. He wanted to _hit_ her for that casual, awful insult, his hand convulsing into a fist, anger fluttering up sharp and hot. But she was drunk and tears were pooling in her eyes, and he knew that she was just lashing out to try to get a reaction. He made his fingers relax, and then reached out and wrapped his hand around the base of the vodka bottle, held it tight and stopped Pansy from lifting it to her mouth again. She dragged at it but he wouldn't let go.

"Stop being an arse, Draco. Let me have a bloody drink! Getting wankered is about the only pleasure I have left to me right now. It's the only thing I have to do in this _damn_ place, apart from talking to Lupin and being fussed over by the Weasley mother."

Draco sighed and let Pansy drink, shuffling back so that his back was against the wall, his legs dangling off the edge of the bed. "Mrs Weasley _is_ nice, isn't she?" he said conversationally, and Pansy harrumphed a sound that was half denial, half sob.

"If I stay here much longer I'll end up the size of a house, with all the baking she pushes on me. It's like the woman thinks my stomach is bottomless," she slurred, blinking owlishly at him, the shadows beneath her eyes like bruises, scrubbing her tears away with the back of her wrist.

"I suspect, with _her_ children, she does think stomachs are bottomless. I've never seen anyone eat as much as they do," Draco said dryly, playing along, trying to draw Pansy even the littlest bit out of the mire she was sunk in.

"No wonder they're so poor. What little they make goes on feeding their enormous brood," Pansy snapped nastily, and Draco could see she got a twisted satisfaction out of being horrible and mean. He was surprised by the fact that when she said it, it made him want to say something in the Weasleys' _defence_ – his first instinct was to tell Pansy off for being so blithely cruel. It was exceedingly discombobulating. He sighed and wished he could have a drink, but they had the meeting later and Hermione would be pissed if he got drunk…er. He was still a little bit fuzzy around the edges, after all the firewhiskey he'd drunk earlier.

"Mrs Weasley was always kind to me. When everyone else was awful, she was just…kind and motherly." He huffed a laugh. "More motherly than my own damn mother."

"Draco and his mummy issues," Pansy taunted, choking on a mouthful of vodka and watching him with glinting, flat eyes. He didn't rise to the bait, just shrugged flippantly, letting the jab slide off him.

"Don't forget my father issues, too, Pans."

She flinched and silently curled in on herself, like a spider he'd poked with a stick, and he cursed himself for not thinking before he spoke.

"Sorry. I didn't –"

"S'alright." She bit her lip and looked up at him, wounded and vulnerable and glazed with firewhiskey and vodka. "I'm being a bitch, I know that. But…"

Draco smiled at her.

"You wouldn't be Pansy if you weren't being a bitch. Merlin knows why, but it's part of your charm, love," he said lightly – the sort of thing he used to say to her at school, when he was feeling kind and generous. Affection for her swelled up in him, memories of the past clear in his mind, everything they'd shared before life had begun to fall apart, mingled with guilt for all the ways he'd treated her horribly too, because he'd been an arrogant, nasty little shit. Lips pressed to the bottle Pansy smiled at him waveringly at the term of affection, and he shuffled around on the bed so that they sat squashed side-by-side. She was cold and too thin, for all that she said Mrs Weasley was pushing food on her.

She laid her head on his shoulder, pulled at his maimed arm so that it settled around her shoulders. She stiffened as the stump brushed against her arm through her jersey, but he didn't blame her. It made people nervous, like they didn't know where to look, or what to say. Wary about touching it, like it was infectious somehow. Draco had gotten used to that – had mostly gotten over the pride and same that made him bristle at peoples' reactions. Besides, the only people he saw these days were the Order members, and they didn't even seem to notice his arm anymore. It was just part of him. And they…accepted him. He turned that thought over and over in his mind for a while, trying to make sense of it, and how it had happened, so quietly, without him even really noticing. He'd been…accepted.

An hour before dinner, Ginny was banished to the kitchen to do some study under her mother's watchful eye, and Ron and Cho disappeared upstairs together, giggling and snuggly, leaving Hermione and Harry alone in the lounge.

"God, they're sickening, aren't they?" Harry remarked affectionately, scrambling up and slumping back onto the couch beside Hermione. She grinned at him.

"They are," she agreed, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs, letting herself fall sideways so she and Harry were shoulder to shoulder. Let out a sigh, leaning her head to pillow her cheek on his shoulder and shutting her eyes, trying to suppress the irrational twinge of insecurity that reared its head when she thought about how long Draco and Pansy had been alone together. Harry made a surprised sound at Hermione's show of affection, and then shifted and tilted his head so their heads rested together, and let out his own sigh.

"Are you and Malfoy…you seem…?" Harry inquired hesitantly, and Hermione nodded, tensing a little.

"Yeah. We're…good. As good as it can get, anyway."

"What does that mean?" He jerked in a breath, quickly adding, "If you don't mind me asking…"

"It's all right. You can ask. It's just, after the war, even if we win –"

"We will. We have to," Harry said firmly, a hint of stubborn anger flaring up in his voice.

"I know, Harry," she said, feeling like she was soothing him, even though it was her that was suddenly hurting, thinking about what she usually tried _not_ to think about. The reality of the best-case scenario future, and how bleak that would still probably be for her. "But even if we win, and everything…" Thick grief and frustration crowded inside her as she let out what she had bottled up and stuffed deep down.

"I don't think we'll… Well, he'll stand trial, and even if he doesn't get…Azkaban…" That word was so horribly hard to say, and Hermione choked back her emotions and squeezed her eyes tighter shut, clenched her fists so that her nails dug painfully into her palms. "He'll still be essentially exiled from most of wizarding society. And he – he doesn't want me to be tainted by association, so…"

"Bit late for that, isn't it?" Harry asked, humour and sympathy at once, an attempt to make her smile through the tears that clouded her eyes unshed. She wished she could see the humour in it, she really did. But she couldn't.

"The Order isn't the general public, Harry. I somehow doubt everyone else in the wizarding world is going to be as forgiving."

"You're tough, 'Mione. And hey, you'll have the Boy Who Lived sticking up for you. You'll get through it." He nudged her, and the casual, sweet affirmation that he would be supportive of her in regards to her relationship made her throat clog up and her chest ache fiercely.

"Thanks, Harry. That means a lot." She interlaced her fingers more tightly together, shifting to rest her chin on her knees, staring blankly at the black TV screen. "But I don't know that he'll give me the chance. We haven't really talked about it since…since we got back together, but I don't think he's changed his mind. He's _convinced_ that it wouldn't work out. That it'd be unfair to ask of me, that he couldn't ask me to be tainted in society and my career by my link to him. And if he goes to Azkaban…well, he's trying to be noble. Silly damn time for him to start, isn't it?" Her voice cracked with tears. "Said he wouldn't want me to wait…"

Harry patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

"Maybe it won't be that bad, 'Mione. He _is_ fighting on our side now. That has to count for something, when it's over."

"Yes, I suppose so. I can always hope, right?" She nudged Harry, swaying into him, "Thanks. I didn't think you'd be so…"

"Mature about it?" he suggested dryly.

She laughed at that, the sound half-startled out of her. "Yeah. That. You have to admit, Harry, you weren't exactly, er, _excited,_ about Draco and me before."

"I'm still not. I don't understand why the hell you and – and _Malfoy_, of all people… But I don't have to understand it or even like it to see that you obviously –" He paused and she glanced up to see him make a disgusted face, getting out the next words like they pained him – "Love each other. A lot. And I wouldn't be much of a friend if I didn't at least try to be okay with it."

"Tell Ron that. _Please_."

"Oh, Ron's just all talk. I don't think he really minds that much. He's just doing what's expected." Harry scratched at his head and shrugged. "I kind of think it's how him and Malfoy communicate. Through insults. I don't think Ron actually _dislikes _him immensely or anything. Malfoy's pretty well proved himself now, y'know? We might not like the idea of you and him…well, yeah, that's just – ew. Ew. But he's not so bad, really."

A smile played at Hermione's lips as she thought about Draco and how not-so-bad he really was, and a happy little sigh puffed out of her.

"No, not so bad at all," she echoed dreamily, and Harry snorted.

"Merlin, you're nearly as sickening as Ron and Cho."

"Oh come off it, Harry. I am not!"

"Did you know he dragged me ring shopping this week?" Harry said from out of nowhere. "Ron. _Ron_. Our Ronald Bilious Weasley, dragging me through Muggle jewellery shops, all tied up in knots over whether sapphires went with rubies or not," he went on incredulously, shaking his head. Hermione grabbed at the subject change gladly, eager to think about something less depressing than the future.

"He told me he was thinking about proposing to Cho, but I thought he'd forget about the idea. You know what he's like. But…so he's really going to do it?"

"He's bought a bloody ring! Only took what felt like ten bloody hours of slogging through jewellery shops, agonising over whether Cho'd like this one, or that one, or hate this one, or vomit at the sight of _that_ one. God, I tell you what, 'Mione, when I propose to Ginny I'm going to bloody well let her choose her own ring. Easier all around."

Hermione grinned. "I think that's a very good idea, Harry."

Pansy had been staring at his stump for what felt like forever – just silently drinking, and drinking, and drinking, and staring down at it. Too drunk too care whether she was being rude or not, Draco supposed. The awkwardness had drained out of the air a little, although his arse was starting to go numb from sitting in the same position for so long, and Merlin, he was bored to death. He leaned his head back against the wall, and wondered what Hermione was doing. Remembered what they'd done earlier. _Good_ thoughts, happy thoughts. Anything but sitting here, bored and silent and waiting for Pansy to either crack or pass out on him in a heap. Wishing he could share in the vodka, clamping his lips together so that 'Can I've a drink?' didn't just slip out before he could stop himself. She was still clinging white-knuckle-tight to her bottle, although her head lolled limp and dozy against his shoulder.

"Does it still hurt?" Pansy asked him abruptly, breaking the long silence, and he started up from his drifting thoughts. He thought about it for a moment; how much it hurt, how often, whether he should tell Pansy, or if it was too private, something he didn't want to lay bare to her. Pansy had a habit of using a person's weak spots, their cracks in the shell, and either ripping them wide open, or jabbing into them with needle-like precision. He didn't particularly want to be her target, today. A drunk Pansy could be a nasty creature, as he knew from unfortunate past experiences at school.

"Yeah. A bit. Phantom pains. Sometimes it almost feels like my hand is still there, right _there_, and I can _feel_ it throbbing, or itching, but I can't do anything about it. Bloody irritating. Mostly I'm used to it now, though. Don't really notice." His voice was clipped and carefully dispassionate, and Pansy let out a soft little sound and curled more firmly into him, fingers loosening on the bottle.

"I remember when he did it. Cut it off." She sounded drowsy now, voice vague and dreamy and desperately sad. Draco bit his lip hard. "You – you screamed until…'til you were hoarse and nothing came out anymore but… It was…horrible."

"I'd rather not think about it."

"No, 'f course not." She roused herself a little, shivering and then subsiding. "Sorry. Think 'm drunk. Shouldn't get drunk. Mucks with the potion I have t' take for the – the _fucking_ lycanthropy. I'm gonna feel like shite tomorrow."

"I think you would have felt like shite anyway, with the amount you've drunk," he said with faint amusement, and she nodded her head slightly against him, dragging in a hitching breath.

"It's…the only thing that helps at all," she half-whispered, voice all knotted up. "And even then… But at least it stops the nightmares."

He didn't know what to say to the wretched despair in that, so he didn't say anything, just held her tight against him as she rambled, getting more and more incoherent. About his father, and the baby-that-never-was, and how _nice _Mrs Weasley was, and how Lupin had been so _kind_, and how she wished none of this had ever happened, and that it could be just a nightmare and she'd wake up in the girls' dorms and everything would be okay. It hurt to listen to, as she poured out her pain in dribs and drabbles of slurring, rambling phrases.

"…came to my room _every single fucking_ _night_. In the end I just…stopped caring. Went numb. At first it was like dying, over and over. I fought him, I _did_, but…and then…it was just…_life_…"

"…always fucking asking how I am. Giving me those _looks_, those worried bloody looks. Don't want her Merlin-damned pity. Not _any_ of their pity. Just…always so bloody _nice_…like she _cares_…"

"…do you hate me for getting rid of it? Would've been your half-brother or sister. Merlin, that sounds awful. Your half…but…do you hate me? Please, don't, please don't hate me…"

"…back when we were still together. Merlin, I was so much happier then, with you. When you were still Slytherin's golden boy, and…it was nice. Not that we were ever in _love_ or anything…but it was…at least it wasn't…"

"…just want to wake up…"

It was horrible. He fucking _hated_ it. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do to make it better. Just hold her. Her words drilled into Draco's head, and he couldn't tune them, couldn't ignore them. He just listened quietly, stroking Pansy's lank, uncared for hair as she tried to exorcise her demons onto him. He wondered if this helpless, impotent horror was what Hermione had felt when he'd told her about the things that had happened to him, the things that he had _done_. It was a _relief_ when she finally stopped talking and dissolved into a quiet weeping that shook her thin shoulders, a bone-deep relief that he felt terribly guilty for feeling.

And then at last she was asleep, exhaustion and alcohol having taken their toll, snoring snotty on Draco's shoulder, her breath still hitching now and then with the aftermath of her tears. He tugged the bottle out of her lax fingers, and carefully, awkwardly shifted her until she was lying down, head on the pillow instead of him. His shoulder ached from the weight of her head, and his arse was half-numb from sitting frozen in one position for so long. She made a mewling sound when he extracted himself from her clinging grip, sprawled on her back, limp and still. She looked so thin. So wretched. He clambered out of the bed and laid a spare blanket over her, brushing her hair off her tear-streaked face with gentle little motions.

"You should put her in the recovery position."

Draco jerked his head up and stared at Hermione, standing in the doorway with her arms folded over her chest, watching him with a strange expression on her face. He stepped back from Pansy automatically, his hand pulled back from Pansy, in the air like a gesture of surrender, stupidly feeling _caught_. He'd just been bloody tenderly stroking Pansy's hair off her face, and although _he_ knew there was nothing to it but platonic affection, it couldn't exactly have looked good. Draco certainly wouldn't have taken it well if he'd caught Hermione doing it to Weasley.

"She was just…I was just…"

"Don't be silly, Draco. I'm the one who sent you down here to comfort her, aren't I?" she said, briskly, brown eyes warm on him. She really didn't seem annoyed, he thought, still half-nervous. "And you really should put her in the recovery position, to make sure she doesn't choke on her own vomit in her sleep or anything."

"Oh," was all he could think to say, stupidly. "What – what's that? Some Muggle thing?"

She shot him a _look_. "Yes, Draco. A _Muggle_ thing."

"I didn't mean it like that…"

"I know," she said quietly and something flickered over her face, like a shadow under the sun, and then she smiled at him, tired but serene, and walked over to the bed, gingerly showing him what the recovery position was by arranging Pansy in it. She was unexpectedly gentle, careful, although she would obviously rather not have to touch Pansy, and Draco could see the empathy – not pity or sympathy but _empathy_ – written all over her as she drew the blanket back up over Pansy and tucked it up around the Slytherin girl. And then she turned her gaze back to Draco, eyes sweeping over him. She stepped forward and slid her hand down the side of his face, trailing her fingers along his jaw.

"You look terrible."

"I feel fucking terrible," he admitted, rubbing his hand over his eyes and then drawing Hermione to him, burying his face in the wild mass of her hair. Breathing her in.

"I'm sorry. It can't have been fun."

"No. It wasn't. But I'm glad you convinced me to come down here. I think she – she needed someone to be there for her. Needed to…" He let Hermione go and tugged his shirt away from his skin, staring at the large wet splotch over his shoulder and right side of his chest, where Pansy had buried her face. "Let it out," he finished, wrinkling up his nose with distaste.

"I can see that," Hermione commented quietly, unbuttoning his shirt with slow, deliberate movements and sliding it off his shoulders, hands light and warm on his skin, lingering more than was necessary. Pressed her lips to his chest and made a little sound of contentment, breath puffing hot over his heart. He wrapped his arms around her, rested his chin atop her head, her fingers pressing firmly into his back, clinging to him.

"Mrs Weasley actually sent me down here to tell you that dinner's ready," Hermione told him after a long moment, drawing back and moving to his drawers, pulling out a clean long-sleeved t-shirt and tossing it to him. Draco caught and dragged it over his head, glanced to Pansy, dead to the world, snoring softly – nose blocked thanks to her crying jag.

"Suppose we should leave her to sleep it off."

Hermione nodded, slipping her hand into Draco's and tugging at him, leading him out the door and toward the narrow cellar stairs. "Yes. I doubt she'd in any shape to come up and eat dinner. Mrs Weasley said she's been taking her meals down here, anyway. Spent most of her time in your room, by the sound of it."

"Mm. She didn't seem keen to vacate it anytime soon either," Draco observed, and Hermione paused on the stairs, squeezed his hand, glancing up at him half-shy, hair falling over her face a little. "Perhaps you could let her stay in your room – you can, um…share with me. If you wanted to, that is."

It wasn't exactly a hard decision to make, and the offer made both warmth and fear go humming in his chest, vibrating through him. He wanted to, he _would_, and he said as much to Hermione as they stepped up into the bright light of the dining room. But he still had that twinge in the back of his head, wondering if getting in deeper was really the best idea. Refusing to entertain the hope that things might work out if they won the war – and thus knowing that moving into her room would only make it hurt more, when the war was done, and it was over.

She grinned at him brightly, relief written all over her, her emotions as plain as an open book. "Good," she said, ridiculously pleased, and kissed him on the cheek in front of everyone – an exuberant happiness that infected him and made him forget his fears and doubts completely, for a while at least.

They held the meeting at 8:00pm sharp, with Professor McGonagall, Neville, Charlie Weasley, three Aurors – Johns, Tiptree and Truffle – turning up on the doorstep bright and early at seven. Neville and Charlie got smiles, hugs and handshakes all around, and Professor McGonagall actually melted a little bit when she saw baby Teddy for the first time, although she rather brusquely and nervously declined to hold him. Kiambang bin Tam of the _Penduduk Di Luar_ from Malaysia – who, rumour had it, had _history_ with Kingsley Shacklebolt –came from the Order house he'd been stationed at since his arrival in Britain a short time ago. He was a slim, dark, fine-boned and exceedingly handsome man in his mid-thirties, with almond-shaped eyes so dark they were nearly black and long hair tied back with a leather thong. Hermione noticed the way he and Kingsley watched each other all evening; they had greeted each other like mere old friends, but their gazes said something else entirely.

"Call me Kiam," he had said in lightly accented English when he'd shook Hermione's hand, smiling at her, his dark eyes lighting up. Yes, Hermione could definitely understand why Kingsley kept staring at the younger man like _that_ – there was something altogether magnetic about him.

A few of the Chilean _Machis_ and a South African _sangoma _and two _inyangas_, each with an apprentice, were nestled away in a corner with Tricia Fideloff and one of the Healers who had survived the attack on St Mungos. All of them were talking animatedly about Healing, swapping methodology and research; the best way to treat curses, which blood-replenishing potion worked most efficiently, the simplest charm for healing internal haemorrhaging… Hermione only understood a third of what they said.

They also had managed to convince the half-blood potions teacher from the _Montréal __é__cole de Sorcellerie_, Madeleine Dubois-Volkov, to _consult_ for the Order. Her mother was a French-Canadian witch, her father a Russian scientist who had worked in chemical weaponry in the motherland. Dubois-Volkov had gone to a Muggle University once she had finished her wizarding education, and studied chemistry. Once she had completed her studies, she had apprenticed to a talented potion master, and then eventually gained her teaching position. Her free time, over the years, had been spent trying to successfully blend muggle chemistry and magical potions together, to create more potent weapons and cures.

She was in her late-thirties, with middling-brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a rather serious face, but she seemed pleasant enough, if nervous about her involvement with the Order. She wouldn't go on any missions – she was purely there to advise the Order, and then return to the _Montréal __é__cole de Sorcellerie_ immediately. It had been difficult enough to persuade her to consult, but apparently Charlie Weasley could be very persuasive when he wanted to be – he'd done well at collating a motley assortment of foreign witches and wizards as allies.

All the occupants of the Godric's Hollow house were crammed into the dining room – Kingsley, Remus, Tonks, all the Weasleys – except Percy, Bill and Fleur – Dean, Seamus, Cho, Luna, Colin Creevy, Angelina – cosy between George and Fred as always, and Hermione noticed that while Angelina was discreetly holding George's hand under the table, Hermione had seen her kissing _Fred_ earlier. The missing ear made it easy to tell the difference between them, nowadays. She blushed at the implications of that, and tried not to stare at the three of them. The Durmstrang contingent was bunched together in one corner of the room, stolid and silent, and Ron and Harry were there, of course.

Lee Jordan, Oliver Wood, Ernie Macmillan, Parvati and Padma Patil, Susan Bones, Lavender Brown, and Tonks' parents were there too, having come from their various homes and Order houses all over Britain, and the enormous table was crammed around with people exchanging news and catching up, the sound of excited talk filling the room to near-deafening levels. Draco sat silently by Hermione's side, ankle hooked behind hers under the table, looking incredibly out of place and uncomfortable, and seemed relieved when Remus called the meeting to order.

"We're all here tonight to discuss the necessary preparations for mounting a successful attack on Gringotts, in order to break into the Lestrange vault and retrieve a horcrux. The goblins consider themselves neutral parties in this war for the most part; however they will use force to prevent us from stealing from the bank. We therefore needed a way to quickly incapacitate them – preferably without causing permanent harm – and it seems Muggle weaponry may be the solution to that problem." Remus paused, looking around the deathly quiet room as those who hadn't heard about the plan absorbed it.

"_Enseignante _Dubois-Volkov, the _Potions Professeur_ at _Montréal __é__cole de Sorcellerie_ –" Remus began, tongue twisting awkwardly over the foreign words.

"Please, call me Maddy," the woman interjected quietly, hands twined nervously in her lap, but spine straight and shoulders back. She reminded Hermione a little of what she imagined a young Professor McGonagall would have been like.

"Er, Maddy, has very kindly agreed to advise us in the acquirement of Muggle chemical weapons, with which we hope to use to non-lethally incapacitate everyone within Gringotts."

"It will not be easy," Maddy said with a shrug, her accent an odd blend of French-Canadian and her father's heavy Russian intonations. "There are not many substances with which one can be assured of non-lethality as well as _immédiat _complete incapacitation – there is one such agent I know of, which my father helped create, stockpiled in his homeland, Russia, but even that can be deadly. If you wanted something that took effect within several hours, however…"

"No," Kingsley interrupted, shaking his head, eyes dragged away from Kiam. "No. We will need immediate effects. There _will_ be Death Eaters or their sympathisers at Gringotts, and if they aren't taken out immediately, they'll have time to disapparate, send a message to alert the other Death Eaters, or cast bubble-head charms. No, it has to be immediate."

"Very well." Maddy nodded thoughtfully, tapping at her sharp chin with long, thin fingers that were stained a variety of colours from the potions and chemicals she worked with. "It is…_concevable_. Some deaths may be _inévitable_, though."

People looked around at each other nervously whispering and muttering uneasily, and then looked to Remus and Kingsley, who were blank-faced and composed, seeming fully accepting of the risk of fatalities. It made Hermione immensely uncomfortable to be considering using _Muggle_ weapons to possibly _kill_ people who, if not allies, weren't the enemy either. Harry cleared his throat, half-raised his hand.

"Are we…are we really okay with _poisoning_ people? Using nerve gas or whatever it is on them? I don't…" he trailed off, dark brows furrowed, staring at Remus with a look of worried confusion, clearly unhappy with the plan. He seemed a little…guilty, too. Hermione understood that feeling because she felt guilt herself – and while it had been her idea, Harry had encouraged it wholeheartedly. And being the only people there who had grown up as Muggles, it struck them harder as well. It had sounded like such a good idea – sleeping gas, to drop everyone in Gringotts without a fight, _perfect_ – but of course it didn't work that way in real life. There was no risk-free easy knockout gas in reality, so if they were to use chemical weapons, they'd have to work with what Muggle countries had created and stockpiled. Which were mostly rather dangerous and nasty.

Hermione would have hoped the first time Muggle technology was used in the magical world, would be to _help_ the wizarding community. But no, it was weaponry that would first be used by wizards and witches. It made her…sad.

"I understand, Harry," Remus said in his gentle way. "I do. But if we don't use these weapons, we'll almost definitely end up with more deaths, from the fighting."

"It just seems kind of, well, underhanded," Harry mumbled, head ducked down, as if he realised how futile his protests were, how stupid they sounded when he was the one who'd been so excited about the possibility initially, and Remus sighed, spread out his hands palm up, shrugged.

"I know, Harry. Believe me, I know. But it's a better option than charging into Gringotts and engaging in a full-scale battle where we'll be hopelessly outnumbered and _definitely_ fighting to kill. We have to think _smart_, Harry. This is _war_."

"Peoples' hands get dirty in war," Ron, of all people, added, sounding caught between endorsing the plan and being angry about it, and then subsided into silence, gnawing on his lip and glowering at the table.

"They do indeed, Mister Weasley. But not in this case. It may be rather…unorthodox…to use Muggle technology, but it is neither underhanded, nor _dirty_ tactics. It is, in my opinion, the quickest, cleanest way to get the horcrux from Gringotts, with the least fatalities," Professor McGonagall said briskly, tone prim and sharp. "If, that is, we can acquire the substances _Enseignante _Dubois-Volkov advises that we will need."

"The only substance that will give anywhere close to the effect that you need is Kolokol-1, an incapacitating gas that my father helped develop many years ago. It is delivered as an aerosol, and takes one to three seconds to cause unconsciousness, which can last anywhere from two to six hours. I however have no idea what effect it would have on the goblin nervous system. The risk in humans is that it causes a degree of hypoventilation – respiratory depression – which can lead to apnoea – a, ah, cessation of breathing, eh?" Maddy added for the benefit of the wizards and witches, who mostly had no idea what apnoea was. "_Nausée_ is also common, which can cause the subjects to drown in their own vomit while they lie unconscious. Fatalities are…probable, but they would still be less than would occur with _traditionnel_ wizarding tactics."

Hermione listened as Maddy slowly and carefully explained the details of Kolokol-1's composition, effects, and risks in detailed layman's terms, and went on to discuss other options, of which there were pitifully few. In the end, it was decided. The Order would send a team to Russia, to steal some of their stockpile of Kolokol-1, and Maddy would remain at an Order safehouse long enough to ensure the gas was in a dispensing device that the Order could use in the attack on Gringotts. Thanks to magical interference with electronic devices, the Kolokol-1 dispensers, and any other Muggle equipment they might use, had to operate with as few electronic components as possible – preferably none.

Fred and George had been researching Muggle weaponry in general, and they were up next, suggesting flashbang grenades that stunned and disoriented, pepper spray, tear gas grenades, and gas masks as an alternative to bubble-head charms. They believed that the tear gas and pepper spray would make good back-ups in the event that the Kolokol-1 didn't work on goblins the way it did on humans, and the flashbang grenades would give a useful advantage if their opponents cast bubble-head charms in time to avoid inhaling the gas. They also, hesitantly, suggested acquiring general frag grenades, 'just in case'.

About half the Order members present balked severely at _that_ idea, including Hermione, but she could sense Draco's approval of the idea. It frightened her a little, how easily he seemed to accept killing, how _unbothered_ by it he was. She remembered the way he'd used the Killing Curse on the werewolf boy in Ballater, who hadn't been a danger, who had just been weeping over his dying friend or girlfriend or sister. He hadn't hesitated, hadn't flinched from it; had in fact just stepped up and said the horrible words. A shiver ran through her and Draco caught her eye, frowned at her slightly, a question in his eyes. She summoned a smile, linked her fingers with his beneath the table and squeezed, but inside she still felt unsettled. That ruthless side to him – the _Malfoy_ in him – was utterly…alien to her.

After much lively debate, it was agreed that if, in the process of acquiring their other supplies, they had a chance to take frag grenades, they would do so. That didn't mean they would definitely take the grenades with them on the mission, though. They could, Lupin said, make a decision about that closer to the mission, after weighing up all other options. It went without saying that they wouldn't use the grenades against the goblins, even if they did take them on the mission – they would be targeted at Death Eaters only.

The meeting went on for half the night, which felt like forever, and Hermione was sagging in her seat with exhaustion by the end of it, blinking hard and trying to stay awake. She hadn't got a lot of sleep over the past week, for one reason or another – some more pleasant than others. She sneaked a peek sideways at Draco, cheeks warming as she thought of the most recent reasons as to why she'd had so little sleep. By the meeting's conclusion, it was arranged that Harry, Johns, Mr Weasley, Fred, George, Dean, Seamus, Susan, Ernie, Lavender, Oliver, Neville, Angelina, Lee, and the Patil twins were assigned to break into various British military bases in four teams of four, to steal the tear gas, flashbang grenades, gas masks, pepper spray, and frag grenades.

Remus, Tiptree, Truffle, Kiambang bin Tam, Viktor Krum, and after a good deal of arguing, Ron, Draco and Hermione, were all slated to break into a Russian compound to steal the Kolokol-1. Hermione wasn't exactly pleased about that – in fact, she was terrified of it – but Draco insisted on being part of the mission, and there was no way Hermione was letting him go, without her being there too. The older Order members hadn't been happy about her, Draco, and Ron insisting on going, but as Ron had pointed out, they were only Muggles – how dangerous could it be?

Having been raised by Muggles, Hermione thought she knew _exactly_ how dangerous it could be, but she didn't say a word despite her creeping fear at the thought of creeping through a facility filled with armed soldiers. Besides, she rationalised to herself, her fear was probably just old ingrained irrational fear lingering from before she'd known about magic, because magic _had_ to trump guns – purely defensively, there were shields and the disillusionment charm, amongst others. It would be fine. Or so she hoped, at any rate.

At just past midnight, the official meeting ended, and by 2:00am, everyone started dispersing; disapparating back to their various homes and Order safehouses with effusive if tired farewells, Charlie Weasley escorting Madeleine Dubois-Volkov back to the undisclosed location they were staying at while she was in Britain. He would be guarding her for the duration. After saying goodbye to the last person to leave – Neville, as it happened, who hugged her tightly – Hermione was shattered; absolutely bone weary, and ready for bed. Draco had disappeared almost immediately after the meeting had ended and the socialising had begun – he'd gone down to the cellar to check on Pansy.

Tiptree had given Hermione two letters for Draco from Narcissa just before she'd left, and Hermione dreaded having to give them over to Draco. Tiptree had certainly seemed relieved she wasn't going to have to be the messenger – which didn't bode well for the content of the letters, as the Auror had probably read them, for security purposes. Hermione _itched _to know what was in the missives, and half-considered opening them so that if they said awful, terrible things, she could burn them and pretend they'd never been delivered. But that would be _wrong_, she told herself firmly. There was always hope that Narcissa's letters were apologies to Draco – reaching out to him. She was, according to Tiptree, quite content at the safehouse she was living in, and enjoyed caring for the children. Maybe she'd had a change of heart. Hermione didn't think so, somehow.

She considered going down to the cellar and telling Draco about the letters – that would pry him away from Pansy – but decided against it. He'd come up as soon as he was able to leave Pansy. Of course he would. And the letters could wait until morning. If Pansy needed him, then that was…understandable, with the state the Slytherin girl was in, Hermione told herself, refusing to let insecurity or jealousy niggle at her. But she really wished he was here right now, and she could fall asleep curled into him, wrapped in his arms. Or find out what was in the damned letters, instead of waiting until the morning with it hanging over her head.

She said goodnight to everyone else and tromped wearily up the stairs, head feeling stuffed full of cotton balls and eyes drooping, dropping the letters on top of her bookshelf. She stripped off her clothes with sleep-clumsy hands, and half-fell into bed. And despite telling herself she was going to stay awake until Draco came up to bed, despite her worries about the ethics of using Muggle weapons on goblins, and her fears about breaking into a Russian chemical weapons facility, Hermione was asleep within moments.

**Author's Note: **And that's chapter 39 –I hoped you all enjoyed it! I'm still getting back into the groove with this story – after so long away, you kind of lose touch with the characters, storyline, atmosphere etc, and it's taking me a while to get a feel for it again. So _hopefully_, this was okay… Please pretty please leave me a review and let me know if you liked it! :D

Next chapter, Hermione and Draco go to visit Narcissa…


	40. The Old Familiar Sting

The Old Familiar Sting

_Beneath the stains of time_

_The feelings disappear_

_You are someone else_

_I am still right here _

_What have I become_

_My sweetest friend_

_Everyone I know_

_Goes away in the end_

_[Hurt, Johnny Cash]_

Draco stared at Hermione, half bloody _frightened_, his heart beating rabbit-quick in his chest, and she smiled at him reassuringly. Squeezed his knee with her firm, warm grip.

"You don't have to."

"Fuck…yes I do," he said wearily, his jaw tight and shoulders all hunched and tense. "I can't just…not know. It would drive me mad." He swallowed hard, scrubbing at his left eye as a tic began twitching the muscles in his eyelid maddeningly. He was wound up beyond all belief, and he wished more than anything that Hermione had just disposed of the damned letters, so he need never have known about them. Blissful bloody ignorance.

"I'm sorry," she offered helplessly, and Draco nodded, patted her hand where it lay on his knee, smiled at her, the expression feeling false and wrong on his face.

"Merlin, I hate this shit," he said under his breath, and steeled himself, opening the first envelope dated nearly a month ago and carefully unfolding the leaves of parchment. His mother's familiar perfect script – thin, elegant cursive – laced the page in the dark purple ink she favoured, the faint scent of her perfume wafting off the parchment.

Draco took a deep, slow breath, and began to read in the pale grey light of morning.

_My son,_

_I have thought long and hard about whether to write to you or not over the past weeks. I am unsure if you will even read this, or if you will destroy it, unopened. I hope you are reading it; for all that you hate me, and perhaps deservedly so, I am still your mother. I know I have not always been the parent you wanted, especially in recent years, but please believe me when I tell you that since I first discovered I was pregnant with you, I loved you and cared for you to the best of my imperfect ability. I would like to think that counts for something._

_We did not end things well the last time we saw each other, Draco, and this letter, unwelcome though it may be, is an attempt to explain myself to you in the calm, uninterrupted medium of words. Perhaps I will be able to communicate myself better to you without the heat of heightened emotions and harsh words hanging in the air around us. Perhaps not. But I will try, because I __do__ love you, and I don't want to lose you, my darling only boy._

_But I love your father too. Despite everything he has done, I cannot help but love him. I know you think Lucius a monster and do not understand how I could still feel loyalty to him, or defend him, but – it's __different__ for me, Draco. I still remember as clear as if it was yesterday, the first time he came courting me. He was so shy, beneath the veneer of arrogance, and his hands trembled with nervousness the first time he took mine. He brought me masses of flowers and more jewellery than I could wear, and although never demonstrative in public, in private he was soft and loving and oh so sweetly romantic._

_I remember how he became drawn into the Dark Lord's company – we both believed, of course, in blood purity. I __still__ do, although I find my enthusiasm and support for the Dark Lord's methods waning still further. I do not like violence, and I hate what the Dark Lord's war has done to our family – ripping it apart. Causing your father to be placed in a position where he was convicted and imprisoned in Azkaban, forcing you to take on dangerous, impossible tasks that you did not want… _

_At first your father was full of boundless enthusiasm for the Dark Lord's teachings and philosophies, and supported him wholeheartedly. The violence Lucius had no real taste for, and treated as a necessary unpleasantness, for 'the greater good'. He __believed__ in the Dark Lord's cause – we both did. And then you were born. Perfect. Innocent. Our greatest treasure. And we were even more determined to make sure the world you grew up in was…as it should be. A world not contaminated by lesser beings who thought themselves our equals – a world where everyone knew their place, and was content to keep within their natural bounds._

_Lucius was one of the Dark Lord's most trusted, valued followers, and as such he witnessed the Dark Lord's decline into instability very clearly. The Dark Lord grew more and more sadistic, more unstable and unpredictable. More vicious, and utterly indiscriminate with it – he would lash out at his followers, people who were __blameless__. He demanded more and more shows of utter, blind loyalty, he…he became dangerous even to those around him, and the shine of his leadership began to fade, for your father and I. But we could no longer leave. Not without signing our own death sentences, for the Dark Lord punished betrayal severely, as you…know._

_Perhaps we would have left and defected to the Order of the Phoenix, despite our deep distaste for what they stood for, except we had you. We would not risk your death, or even if you were protected, our deaths, leaving you to grow up without us. And besides, we still believed in blood purity, we merely no longer trusted the Dark Lord not to turn on us. And we wanted to believe in the dream; that you could grow up in a world where pure bloods held their rightful place, and you would have to serve no wizard or witch with lesser blood than yours. _

_So we stayed, and when the Killing Curse the Dark Lord aimed at Harry Potter, rebounded onto him, we let out a sigh of relief. It was a…shame that the Dark Lord's goals had not been achieved, and you would not grow up in that new world we had hoped to help create – but we were, at least, safe from the Dark Lord and Ministry both._

_The years passed, and we were happy, weren't we? The three of us – a happy family. At least, that is how __I__ remember it. Merlin, Draco, Lucius __adored__ you. I know at times he could be severe, or rather exacting, but in his own undemonstrative way, you were everything to him. His only heir. His pride and joy. And then, shortly before you began at Hogwarts, the rumours began amongst the remaining Death Eaters… Rumours that the Dark Lord had returned in some shape or form – and we all knew that if he had returned, he would expect to reclaim his place, as Lord over his __devoted__ servants. We had no idea whether he was back or not, of course, at first – but your father was unwilling to risk being unprepared._

_Your father would not seek out the Dark Lord, or search for him to see if the rumours were true, but he refused to drift along and merely hope for the best. If the Dark Lord was back, there would be no choice but to return to his service – the only other options were siding with blood traitors and mudbloods, or death. And your father wished for you to be __ready__ should the Lord return; and so Lucius' demands upon you began to grow even more exacting than before. Because he knew the son of a Death Eater would have certain…expectations placed upon him by the Dark Lord. And then it was confirmed – the Dark Lord had risen again, and we were once more locked into servitude beneath him. And he was…__displeased__ with us for our disloyalty._

_Lucius and I tried to protect you from it all, but it was impossible. What the Dark Lord wanted, he got, and we were helpless, trapped like rats. Your father sank himself into doing the best he could to keep the Dark Lord happy, and protect you and I, Draco, and the strain…it began to warp him. To take its toll upon his psyche; hardening him, furthering the ruthless streak he always possessed. He became a colder, harsher man, much to my sorrow. _

_But to a certain extent, we were still happy to serve, because we still believed in blood purity – perhaps even more than before because if we __didn't__ believe, the Dark Lord would know, would __see__ it in our minds. And then, despite our attempts to keep you separate from the Dark Lord, and the Death Eater activities, you eventually became involved…and you remember the rest well, I am sure of it._

_My point, Draco, is that Lucius and I – everything we did, up until your father went to Azkaban, was for your sake. And then Lucius came out of Azkaban and he was…changed utterly. He was broken and twisted and – not the man that I married. That man was still there somewhere, buried deep under the surface, but that surface was madness and despair and cruelty and…well, you know full well what he has been like since then. I am so sorry for what he did to you. It was… _(The next few lines were illegible, the ink blurred by tears.)

_But the man he was – the good, kind father and husband – is still there, I __know__ it. I cannot turn my back on him, not now when he needs me the most, to __help__ him. He is not responsible for what he has done – the Ministry and the Order are, for locking him away in Azkaban and driving him to this insanity. Azkaban is __cruel__, Draco, cruel and __evil__, and it and the people who shut him up in there are the ones responsible for what he has done. Not __him__ – the Lucius I married, the one who courted me with that earnest sincerity beneath that cultivated, aloof pride would never have hurt me the way he has. And he __has__, Draco – you are not the only one who has suffered, although I do not attempt to measure my suffering against what you have suffered through. And the Lucius who loved you, who __adored__ you and thought you were the centre of his universe…he would never have been able to hurt you the way he has._

_Please, Draco, understand that when I say I love your father, I mean the man he was before __this__ – the man I believe he __can__ be restored to. And I wish you could differentiate between the two of them as well. That even as you hate what he is now, you could love who he __was__, and allow me to try to bring him back, so we can be happy again. I want us to be… _(Several more lines blurred to illegibility by tears.)

_I love you, my darling boy, and I miss you every day, although the children here keep me busy. I enjoy assisting in their care, although it irks me that children have been taken from their parents, simply because their parents were Death Eaters. But it is good to be…busy. Productive. And they are sweet children, even the…Muggleborns, and the children of blood traitors who have been killed in the war are very…likeable, I must admit (Although I do despair at what they are being taught about blood.) I have always loved children – you know how long your father and I tried for a brother or sister for you. So, if I must be separated from both you and Lucius, it is nice to at least have a purpose with which to distract myself from day to day._

_Auror Delia Tiptree tells me you are safe, and doing well, and knowing that helps assuage my feelings somewhat – but I hope that perhaps sometime soon, you might come to visit me, and…give me another chance?_

_With much love,_

_N.M._

Draco bit his lip, hands shaking as, without a word, he held out the sheet of parchment to Hermione to take and read herself. _Fuck. _He could feel his cheeks burning, and his palms were clammy, heart still thudding away too quickly. He couldn't even begin to process everything his mother had written – he felt numb, dazed. Fucking _stunned_. Hermione's presence helped; sitting on the edge of her bed together, her thigh pressed warm to his, she, thankfully, being utterly silent at the moment. He didn't think he could stand her infernal curiosity and questions right now.

She took the parchment hesitantly, looked at him with uncertainty in her eyes, and he nodded jerkily. Tried to speak and his voice was a husky croak, all choked up with emotion, so he cleared his throat and tried again.

"You can…read it."

She nodded silently and turned her eyes to the neat, flowing script, and Draco opened the other letter, the one dated only yesterday, instead of over three weeks ago. It was little more than a short note, dashed off quickly on a piece of parchment that had been roughly torn off to size, instead of neatly sliced through by magic. His mother's usually perfect and precise writing was scrawled and messier, as if she'd been in a state of excitement or hurried when writing it. He began to read, eyes skimming over the paper.

**Draco,**

**Auror Delia Tiptree told me what happened in Ballater – I am ****so**** immensely relieved to hear you are recovering well. I understand that you felt strongly about defecting, but must you fight for them and risk your life, my darling only son? It was horrible enough when you were doing it in the Dark Lord's service when you had no other choice, but to willingly ****volunteer**** to do it for the Order? I wish you wouldn't.**

**I was surprised but pleased to hear Pansy Parkinson is now in your company; it is a dreadful shame that she has been infected by lycanthropy, but she is still at least a pure blood by birth, if not by technicality now. I understand her desire to seek refuge with the Order, after being so mistreated by Greyback, but I imagine her beliefs on blood purity in general haven't changed…?**

**You two used to be such a promising young couple, back when you were both attending Hogwarts together. Of course, now she's been bitten by a werewolf she's a less ****desirable**** match, but your choices of partner within the appropriate families are rather limited now, are they not? And you two were ****very**** sweet together. I don't mean to pry or push, Draco; I know how little you would appreciate that, especially now after everything that has happened. It's just…something for you to think on, my darling.**

**Auror Delia says she will be seeing you tomorrow and delivering both this letter and the last – which I thought she had delivered weeks ago! – and I ask that if you ****do**** visit me, might you bring Pansy along with you? I imagine she will need support, in her difficult situation, and it would be lovely to see the girl again. I hope very much that I shall see you, and Pansy, soon.**

**Your Mother,**

**N.M.**

Anger boiled up in the wake of that letter. The last time Draco had seen his mother, he had damn well _told _her he was in love with a Muggleborn – and he was certain she had known that Muggleborn was Hermione. And now here she was, chatting excitedly about matching him up with Pansy, as if everything was normal between him and his mother, and as if he wasn't involved with someone else. And she was also obviously completely unaware of the part of Pansy's ordeal that her _darling_ Lucius had inflicted on the girl. He wondered if it would change his mother's opinion on Lucius if she knew about _that_.

Draco crumpled the letter up in his hand reflexively, bowing his head to his clenched fist and shutting his eyes tightly. Grinding his knuckles against his forehead and focusing on the discomfort it caused. Breathing deep and slow. Trying not to erupt into a fit of rage that wouldn't be fair to Hermione to have to see, not that she would complain. She would understand. She always tried so _hard_ to understand. Even though the future might be…doubtful, to say the least, Hermione was everything to him. Fucking _everything_.

It _grated_ for his mother to be pushing Pansy upon him, and couching it in those apologetic terms, insisting that she wasn't pushing the Slytherin girl at him, when that was _exactly_ what she was doing. After a long moment Draco tried to let the anger go and straightened. Lifted his head and looked to Hermione, who was just finishing the first letter. She finished, folded it back up neatly, and sat there clutching it in her lap and nibbling her lip, staring down at it.

"Well?" Draco asked her roughly, and she shrugged.

"I don't…there was an awful lot in there. It's…it's a lot for _me_ to try to get my head around. I can't imagine how much it must be for you…" she said after a long pause, voice small and uncertain. She glanced up at him, nibbling at her lip again. Nervous. He bit his tongue sharply, pushing the rising anger down.

"You agreed with her, didn't you?"

"No – no, Draco. I didn't…I would _never_ do what she has done, I would have let go of, ah, someone like Lucius, a long time ago. There comes a point when one has to choose – and I would have chosen my son. But…I do understand her perspective better now, and I must admit I feel a certain amount of…sympathy. It must be very hard for her, too. Not that –" She began to prevaricate and justify apologetically, and Draco waved her into silence.

"I know. You don't have to explain, Hermione. I – it sounds different somehow, when I read it like that, all laid out on paper. I still don't…I still…fuck. I don't know. I'm furious at her for everything she's said and done, for stupidly sticking by my father after everything _he's _done, but…I actually think I feel fucking _sorry_ for her. Merlin, I wish I didn't, but I do."

Hermione pressed up against his side, and he slid his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She was warm and soft and taut against him, like an anchor settling him comfortably into calm waters and holding him steady there.

"She obviously _does_ love you."

"I know." He stared at the wall blankly, trying to focus on the warmth of Hermione's body snugged into his, and not the hollow feeling the letters had carved out inside him. "That almost makes it worse, though. At least if she was purposefully hurting me…then I could just cut her off. Forget her, and father. Instead…"

It was Hermione's turn to say, "I know," reassuring and sympathetic, and he could tell she really did understand. They sat in silence for a moment, and then she gestured at the crumpled letter he still held in his hand.

"What's that one say…?"

"Read it." He pushed the scrumpled ball at her and she smoothed out the worst of the wrinkles with quick, precise motions, and then her eyes flickered quickly over it. She made a harrumphing sound at one point, an indignant sort of noise, and Draco would have bet a galleon that she'd just read the part about he and Pansy being so well suited to each other. She re-crumpled it once she was done.

"Well," she said at last, a little piquantly. "_That_ certainly had a different tone to the first one."

Draco smiled humourlessly at Hermione's tone and tightened his arm around her. "Yes. You could say that. As far as she knows, I still want nothing to do with her, and yet she's still trying to match-make. Typical mother."

"As far as she _knows_…? Do you…want to go visit her?" Hermione asked cautiously, and Draco thought about it, weighing everything up in his head. Did he want to? Did he want to try to reach out to his mother? See what kind of tentative bond they might be able to reforge? It was…surprisingly tempting. He didn't know what to say. At last, Hermione disentangled herself from him and got up, stretching, her stripy jersey riding up and exposing a creamy sliver of skin between jersey and jeans that Draco found mesmerising.

"I'll ask Remus if he can fire call Delia Tiptree. Get her to side-along apparate us over to your mother's safehouse," she said briskly, finger-combing her waves of hair and tucking it behind her ears as best she could, most of it springing back out to frame her face. Draco glanced up at her, startled, questioning.

"I can tell you want to go see her, Draco. One last chance or you'll always wonder, right? And I'm certainly bloody well _not_ letting you go with Pansy, like your mother asked. _I'm_ going with you." Sudden consternation crossed her face. "If you want me there, that is."

She was willing to face his mother with him. She was willing to be there, and possibly be called a Mudblood – or be ignored at least, if not outright insulted. He could see on her face that going to visit Narcissa Malfoy was the last thing Hermione wanted to do, but she was doing it anyway, without him even having to ask. He nodded mutely, not trusting his voice at that moment, and she smiled at him, walked over to the edge of the bed and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

"I'll go ask then, shall I?" Her arms linked around his neck, that faint smile still on her lips, and he nodded again, feeling adrift. Feeling bloody scared. Wanting a drink so fucking badly.

"Yes." He said, at last summoning the ability to speak. "Please do."

She nodded and kissed him again, heading out the door, leaving him to pick his mother's first letter up, reading through it again and again. Trying to _understand_.

The three of them popped into existence on a garden path, Hermione wobbling on her feet a bit as she got her bearings. Merlin she _hated _apparating, especially side-along apparition. It always made her feel a little ill and dizzy, and even with all the apparating she, Harry, and Ron had done in their search for horcruxes, she'd never gotten used to it. She looked around, seeing an enormous old two-storied house in front of her, and neat gardens sprawling out all around her, edged by little box hedges of herbage. Three little girls were playing with a skipping rope on a piece of lawn to the right of the house, a grey-haired witch sitting nearby on a garden seat, watching them with half an eye while she read a book to a couple of toddlers nestled on her lap. A single elderly wizard was tending what looked like a large, productive vegetable garden to the left of the house, and he waved a gnarled hand in a greeting Hermione returned.

Delia Tiptree led them briskly up the path to the door, opening it and stepping through into an expansive, sunny kitchen. Hermione lagged slightly behind Draco, her heart in her throat. She had no idea exactly how Narcissa Malfoy was going to react to Hermione's presence, but she was fairly certain it wasn't going to be a _positive_ reaction. Draco followed Delia into the kitchen, pausing on the threshold and turning back to eye Hermione with understanding.

"You can…wait here if you like. You don't have to –"

"No, I said I would go in with you, and I will. I'm – fine, Draco. Just a little nervous," she admitted quietly, and took the hand Draco offered her gratefully.

"Your mother's in the drawing room, Malfoy – this way," Delia said, leading them through the dim, musty corridors to the double doors, pushing them open.

"Mrs Malfoy? Your son and Hermione Granger are here to see you."

Narcissa Malfoy looked up with wide, startled blue eyes, and tipped the chubby almost-toddler she was dangling upside-down the right way up again. The child shrieked with joy and burbled happily, patting at Narcissa's face, and she kissed it on the forehead and stood, her pale pink skirts rustling as she walked over to them, baby on her hip. There was a cautious, hopeful happiness on her face as she approached, her eyes glued to Draco. Hermione felt…out of place. Like she was intruding on what should be a private moment. But his fingers gripped hers so tightly it hurt, and his whole body tensed, and she was glad she hadn't waited outside.

"Draco. You came," was all Narcissa said, a deep relief in her elegant, formal voice, her eyes sweeping over him full of concern, giving a little flinch when she came to the scar on his throat; the liniment was fading it well, but it was still very fresh, and it was obvious how badly he'd been injured.

"I did, mother," he said stiffly, chin up and face blank, radiating his uncomfortableness clearly. Narcissa's mouth down-turned ever so slightly, lips pursing and a shadow coming over those periwinkle blue eyes. She really was very beautiful, Hermione thought as she stood silent and nervous by Draco's side, but it was a cold, still sort of beauty. Like a marble statue. Except when Narcissa smiled, and her face gentled and lit up, like it did right _then_ when she kissed the baby on the forehead again, and gave it a little squeeze of a cuddle.

"D – Delia, could you take Margrethe, please?" She held out the chubby baby and the tall, redheaded Auror stepped forward and swept the baby into her arms.

"C'mon then, Maggie, come to your Auntie Delly for a cuddle," the Auror cooed, tickling Margrethe under the chin, an Amazon warrior babbling baby-talk, her stern, brusque air gone. She glanced over at Draco and Hermione.

"I'll be in the kitchen, if you need me," she said, and then left Hermione and Draco alone in the drawing room with Narcissa Malfoy. The three of them stood awkwardly, staring at each other – or rather, Hermione looking between Draco and Narcissa, Narcissa staring hungrily at Draco, and he standing with his eyes fixed on some point beyond his mother's left shoulder. Carefully avoiding her eyes. Hermione gave his hand a squeeze and he squeezed back, and then Narcissa's eyes darted sharply to where their hands were twined together, a vaguely distasteful expression on her smooth features. She didn't say anything though, not yet at least.

"Please, sit," she said and led them to the two couches in the centre of the room, separated by a low coffee table. Hermione perched uncomfortably beside Draco on the edge of one, and Narcissa seated herself on the other, in a swish and whisper of skirts. The blonde woman sat with her back perfectly straight, pale, slim hands folded in her lap, eyes almost _fierce _on Draco.

"I didn't think you'd come," she said at last, breaking the deathly silence. "I thought, when so long had passed since I had given Delia the first letter… And then yesterday she told me she'd forgotten to give it to you. Forgotten! Honestly…" She shook her head, mouth pursed up with disapproval.

"She probably _forgot_, because she was busy with more important things, mother. I'm afraid _letters_ come a poor second to fighting the war. The world does not revolve around you…" He started off with his voice all ice – sharp and cold – but by the end he sounded more uncertain than anything else, words trailing away. Narcissa ducked her head.

"Of course," she said without argument, chastised and accepting it rather than argue with her son. Hermione jiggled her knees with nervous energy, wishing she was anywhere but in this big, high-ceilinged old drawing room, with the light pouring in from the windows at the end of the room, and dust motes dancing in the air. There was another long silence, and Hermione tried to be unnoticeable, fixing her eyes on her jeans-clad legs and gnawing at her lip.

"You…didn't bring Pansy, I see. I would have liked to have seen her. How is the poor girl?" Narcissa asked carefully, and Hermione could hear the implied censure in the woman's voice – a criticism of Draco's choice to bring Hermione, a criticism of her in and of herself, and still, the woman didn't acknowledge her presence whatsoever. Well. So bloody what. Hermione didn't particularly _care_ what Narcissa thought of her. She didn't need the woman's approval – which was lucky, because she knew she certainly wasn't going to get it.

"As well as can be expected, mother," Draco snapped, so, so cold, and Hermione wondered if this had been a good idea after all. Maybe it would have been better if they'd never come. "Unfortunately, not well enough to come visiting with _Hermione_ and I." There was a wealth of anger in his voice as he said Hermione's name, spitting it out, forcing it in his mother's face. Daring her to say something about Hermione. Hermione really wished he wouldn't – she didn't want to be the centre of their horrid, dysfunctional-beyond-belief family argument. Didn't want to be turned into something they fought about. Damn him, he could have asked her before he flung it out there like that. Like a _challenge_ to his mother.

"Yes. You brought the…" His mother paused, mouth working before she settled on a word. "…Muggleborn girl." She said it with distaste, but at least she hadn't used _mudblood_, Hermione thought, feeling shivery and clammy. Narcissa continued smoothly. "I remember the last time I saw you, Draco, you professed your love for a Muggleborn rather emphatically, and I asked if it was Miss Granger. I see I was right?"

Hermione's eyes slid to Draco, watching as he stared his mother down, face white and drawn, the emotion in his grey eyes shuttered and closed away. "Yes. You were right. Hermione and I are…very much in love," Draco got out at last, a dry, humourless smile on his lips, and Hermione didn't know whether she wanted to kiss him or slap him. To hear him say that they loved each other and they were together so openly, so calmly to his mother was…wonderful, in a way. And yet he was also using what they had to hurt his mother, and see if it would bait Narcissa to anger. And that grated on her terribly. It _cheapened _their relationship, to be used for that purpose. And yet, she couldn't blame Draco for wanting to do it.

His mother blinked at them, lips parted slightly and face blank. "Oh," she said at last, and then her eyes fluttered and she forced a smile to her lips. "That's…" She trailed off, and then her half-dazed eyes refocused on Draco, the blue-grey cleared and sharpened with concern. "Are you _happy_, Draco?"

There was genuine concern there, real maternal, motherly worry, and Hermione felt a sharp pang as she was reminded of her mother, her parents, off in Australia. Carefully mind-wiped; all their memories of Hermione carefully extracted and stored in vials at Godric's, false memories implanted in their minds to replace the gaps. No knowledge of their daughter. She saw very, very clearly, that despite all Narcissa Malfoy's faults, flaws, horrible choices, and intolerable bigotry…she loved her son. Draco cleared his throat, ducked his head and pressed his lips together briefly.

"I – I can't imagine being with anyone other than Hermione, mother," he said coolly, and Hermione didn't miss the way he carefully avoided saying he was _happy_. Because of course, neither of them was really able to be _happy_; that was denied them. She gripped his hand tighter, their hands clammy together; fingers interlocked so tightly that she knew when they let go of each other, her fingers would be stiff and half-numb. Narcissa could see the total honesty on Draco's face, the blunt truth in his words, and she inclined her head slightly.

"I realise am in no position to judge anybody's choices, regarding whom they may love, and I'm glad you're happy, Draco," was all she said, quietly, clearly hoping that Draco might not reject her. That he might forgive her. It was _painful_ to watch. Hermione had never thought she would feel so _sorry_ for Narcissa. And she certainly hadn't expected Narcissa to do anything other than throw a tantrum over their relationship. This quiet, pragmatic acceptance – if not anything approaching _approval_ – was not what Hermione had anticipated. From the faint look of shock that crossed Draco's features, he hadn't expected it either. He was speechless, lost for words. Hermione opened her mouth, hoping she wouldn't regret speaking and drawing more attention to herself.

"I…appreciate that, Mrs Malfoy," she said, smiling a little, a token of peace, nerves jangling. Narcissa eyed Hermione without expression, and then inclined her head again. It was neutral – neither a friendly acceptance of Hermione's gesture nor a rejection of it, but at least it was an acknowledgment of her existence in the room. A bare acknowledgement, however, it seemed, as Narcissa then returned to ignoring Hermione with cool, calm composure.

"Delia told me you were wounded. I – I can see the scar. It must have been a terrible injury," Narcissa said after yet another long, awkward silence, flicking a thin hand in the direction of Draco's throat, and his mouth twitched with an almost-sneer.

"Hardly the worst injury I've suffered during this war," Draco replied, shifting his maimed right arm into better view, and Narcissa's eyes flew to the stump, her delicate features twisted up with guilt and shame and…aversion – distaste. Like she thought it was ugly, hideous, and her gaze slid away from the maimed limb quickly, as if she couldn't stand looking at it. The first two emotions Hermione could understand, the last…made her quietly furious.

Hermione had never found the injury disgusting, although the story behind it, how it had happened, horrified her. The fact that he had been maimed horrified her. But…but the stump itself, aesthetically, was just…Draco, just part of him. She felt neutral about it, when she looked at it divorced from the context of how it had happened, and how it affected him. To be honest, Hermione still felt…nervous about touching it, because she didn't want to hurt him, and because to be honest, it _was_ disconcerting… But it _wasn't_ ugly. It wasn't disgusting. _He_ thought so though, and he could see that now, reflected in his mother's face. Hermione clenched her jaw and stiffened her shoulders, simmered silently inside.

"I – I am so sorry that you lost your –"

"Don't apologise, mother, please." He dragged in a shaky breath and then said quietly, "I know you tried to dissuade the Dark Lo– I mean, you-know-who. You told me last time I was here what you tried to…" He blanched and Hermione felt a tremor run through him as he trailed off, staring down at his maimed arm wordlessly for a moment. "I know you did what you could, at the time," he allowed at last, and shrugged minutely. "And it doesn't help, anyway. Apologies don't…"

"I know. I know, Draco, darling. But over the past week I've been talking to the Order members here, and – and been spending a lot of time thinking. I _am_ sorry, and I need you to believe that. Everything that has happened to you is my fault, or at least, the fault of your father and I, and – and…" Narcissa took a deep breath and steadied herself visibly, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief and then continuing in quiet, shaky tones, hands twisting together in her lap. "I need you to forgive me, Draco. You're my son. My only boy. You're all I have left to me now – now that your father –"

"Is an evil monster?" Draco interrupted bitterly, and Narcissa flinched. Shook her head slightly.

"Now that he and I are apart. Now that I am kept here, separated from him," she said, and Hermione heard the hollow grief of forced separation in Narcissa's voice, as if the woman missed Lucius terribly, even _now_, after everything he'd done. Draco seemed just as horrified by that as Hermione was.

"What – you would go back to him, if you had a choice?" he asked disgustedly, short nails digging into Hermione's hand as he clutched at it. "Run back to your insane, sadistic husband? After what he's _done_, you still refuse to leave him?" His voice was drenched with contempt and hurt, and Narcissa was pale and still, a waxwork on the couch opposite, fragile, faintly apologetic.

"I told you in the first letter I wrote you, Draco. He – he isn't well. This isn't _him_, it's not the Lucius I know; the wonderful husband and proud father. He's been driven to this. He needs me, needs my help to get better. Find himself again. Your father would _never _have hurt you if he was in his right mind." Narcissa grew shrill with emotion, expression anguished as she begged Draco to understand. "It's the Ministry's fault – the Order's fault. They shut him away in that Merlin-damned prison and left him to rot in the dark! They drove him to this!"

Hermione fought down the urge to leap up and yell at the woman, or shut her up with a good slap. She bit her lip, seething, muscles trembling and heart pounding, wondering if she _should_ speak for Draco, or if he would only resent her interrupting. In the end she stayed silent as Narcissa ranted, until finally Draco had enough, and snapped. He dropped Hermione's hand, pushing himself to his feet and glaring down at his mother with cold rage.

"Shut up," he snapped and Narcissa kept babbling, frantic in her attempts to make Draco listen to her, as if there was anything she could say that would make him understand her perspective.

"Shut the _fuck_ up and listen to me, mother!" he roared at last, and Narcissa gulped and swallowed her words, sitting back on the couch with big, frightened eyes glued to Draco's face.

"Maybe. Maybe they did drive him mad. Maybe it's not his fault, and he's not responsible for what he's done. Maybe they _did_ make him into this – this _bastard_ that I would kill given half a chance. But there comes a point, _mother_, when you cut your losses. Father is _gone_. We will never be a happy fucking family again, even if he _gets better_ as you so prettily put it, like he's _ill_ instead of a raving, sadistic madman." Draco's breath came jaggedly as he spat the words out, grey eyes icy on his mother's face, and she stared at him like she didn't know him. Hermione bit her tongue, stomach twisted up and sick. She wished she'd burnt the damned letters.

"There is no coming back from what he did to me," Draco went on, voice wobbling as he thrust out his maimed arm. "He _crippled_ me mother. I don't care if he suddenly _gets better_ and is horribly sorry and racked with guilt over it. I can't ever forgive him for that. And I sure as hell will _never_ forgive him for what he did to Pansy –"

"Draco!" Hermione was up, grabbing his arm, pulse racing and horror filling her. "Draco, stop!" They hadn't asked Pansy if they could tell Narcissa, and as far as Hermione knew, the Slytherin girl would rather _no one_ knew. She didn't want what had happened bandied about for everyone to know – she wanted it kept private, secret. And now Draco had, in his fury, laid Pansy's secret all but bare, because what else would Lucius have done to Pansy but _that?_ It was obvious. Draco paled further as he realised what he'd done, and snapped his mouth shut. And Narcissa furrowed her brow and looked up at them both with vague puzzlement, blooming into slow-dawning realisation.

They were a frozen tableau for a long moment, and then Narcissa said faintly, "What do you mean, Draco? What – what did Lucius do to Pansy?"

The muscles in Draco's jaw bunched and shifted as he tensed it, swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, turned his head away and blinking rapidly, and Hermione took his hand in both of hers, unsure what on earth she was supposed to do. He cleared his throat, still-rough voice sounding strangled when he spoke.

"It's not my place to say, mother. I shouldn't have…shouldn't have said anything. We'll…be going now."

Narcissa stood, swaying on her feet slightly, eyes round and terrified as Draco tugged Hermione away, rounding the couch and heading for the door with hurried steps.

"He – he… No. No he wouldn't. He couldn't. Not Lucius, not my Lucius. He would never…_could_ never do something like that. Not that. Besides he loves _me_. He's _never_… He would _never_ do that to me."

Draco whirled on Narcissa, and Hermione could do nothing but watch helplessly as he raged at the woman, all self-control lost, ripped away by his mother's words.

"To _you_? Do that to _you_, mother? How fucking self-absorbed are you? He didn't do it to _you_, like he was _cheating_ on you, hurting _you_ – he did it to Pansy, and to Merlin knows how many other Muggles and Muggleborn prisoners. He did it _all the fucking time_ and never _once _did he 'do it to you', he did it to _them_. Father _raping_ someone is not an offence directed at _you_, not an injury done to _you_, you _selfish, petty_ _bitch_."

Narcissa stumbled back into the couch and sat down on it hard, an oomph of breath whooshing out of her as Draco advanced on her.

"You are not the victim here, _mother_."

"I don't believe it," she said faintly, passing a hand over her eyes, shaking her head. "I don't believe it."

Hermione winced. That was the last thing Narcissa should have said; denying the hurt Draco _knew _his father had caused. His mother making excuses for the man again, trying to protect Lucius from the consequences of his sadism, and in the process throwing Draco and all Lucius' other victims to the wayside. Hermione's heart wrenched for Draco. That had to hurt so much. She watched with her heart in her throat as Draco stopped in front of his mother, looming over her. For a moment it looked like he wanted to strike Narcissa, hand bunching up at his side, and she wondered if she should call for Delia. But then he took a deep breath and some of the anger subsided a little. His hand flexed at his side, fist opening and relaxing a little.

"I saw, mother. I saw it happen. I walked in on it once. Father raping a Muggle. Right there, in his study. He didn't even seem to _care _that I saw. If I'd asked him, he probably would've let me have a go, once he was done…" Draco's voice cracked and broke, a wondering, dazed revulsion overtaking the anger in his voice, and Hermione could tell he was remembering. Picturing the scene in his mind's eye again. She hurried across the room, laid a hand on his arm, and he felt cold through his thin shirt, the muscles in his arm wound taut.

"Draco…" A shiver ran through him when Hermione said his name, and he pulled his eyes from his mother, glanced down at her. His eyes were flat and rimmed with red, the lines of his face drawn and strained, but he tipped up the corner of his mouth minutely as he stared down at Hermione; gratitude in that whisper of a smile. He turned back to his mother, a steady clam in his voice as Hermione rubbed her thumb firmly over the inside of his arm, trying to transmit what comfort she could.

"I know you don't want to believe me, but it's the truth, mother. I have no reason to lie to you. I know you want to think you can _save_ father somehow, but you can't. It's too late. He's…he's done things that can't be forgiven. And you can say sorry to me, but the words mean nothing unless you act on that apology, by not making _excuses_ for him. Pansy – can you honestly look her in the eye and tell her that you're _sorry_, while knowing that if you had the chance, you'd run straight back to the man who did that to her?"

Narcissa was dazed, blank, hands twisting together, knotting up the handkerchief in her lap. She wet her lips and lifted her shoulders in a faint shrug. "I – I – I don't know what to say, Draco. I didn't…didn't know. It's a…shock. Hard to take in, that your father could have done such things. I don't know what to say. I…"

"Well you think about it then, mother. But don't take too long. I will _not_ be second choice to a murdering, raping, sadistic arsehole. If you want to have anything to do with me, then make your mind up quickly. Me or him. Those are your options. Let me know when you've decided." Bitter acid as Draco spoke, words clipped and sharp, and then he stepped back from his mother, staring down at her, and she up at him, their eyes locked, and Hermione felt again like she was intruding.

"It was nice to see you, mother," Draco said, a twist of wistful sadness in his voice, and then he turned and walked away. Hermione didn't look back at Narcissa who sat silently on the couch as if frozen. She stuck close at Draco's side, fingers curled around his wrist, feeling his pulse flutter quick and hard beneath his skin. And then they were out the door, and Hermione pulled it shut with a rattle behind them, leaving them in the dark, musty corridor together, alone. He led them quickly along the corridor toward the kitchen as if he couldn't wait to get away, but as soon as they rounded a corner he let out a rasping breath, stopping in his tracks and leaning heavily against the wall.

Hermione stepped in close to him; sliding her arms up around his neck, holding him tight, and he swayed forward and buried his face against her neck, sighing into her hair, breath hot on her skin. They clung to each other silently for a brief moment, before Hermione stirred herself to speak.

"Are you all right?" she asked him quietly, running a hand through his hair and down his neck, and he nodded against her neck, straightened and looked down at her, sweeping a loose lock of hair off her face gently.

"Yes. I'm fine. Although I wish to Merlin we hadn't come. I didn't expect…that. I don't know _what _I expected to come of this, exactly, but…not that. I suppose I had some ridiculous hope that mother and I might be able to work things out civilly." He sounded a little lost, and his voice was ratcheted tight.

"It's not ridiculous to hope, Draco."

"I rather think that little demonstration in there would prove otherwise, Hermione. A perfect illustration of why foolish optimism is simply setting yourself up for disappointment."

"Maybe she'll think about it and decide to choose you," Hermione tried hopefully, leaning into Draco, wrists still locked together behind his neck, staring up at him – his head fallen back against the wall, eyes shut and lips flattened together. His arms were around his waist, his hand smoothing up and down her side absently.

"Even if she chooses me, Hermione, the very fact that she has to think about it at _all_ takes away from that choice, just a little," he said dryly, as if it didn't make him feel utterly terrible, as if he was emotionally divorced from it all. "I'll try to repair our relationship if she 'chooses me' I suppose. But nothing will ever be the same."

"Nothing ever stays the same, Draco. Change is inevitable."

"How depressing," he muttered, and Hermione shook her head even though his eyes were still shut and he couldn't see the gesture.

"No. Not depressing. Sometimes change is a good thing," she argued, and he cracked one eye open, a flash of dulled silver fixed on her face, an eyebrow lifting. She smiled at him. "You're just a pessimist."

"Realist," he amended, as he always did, but smiled back at her. "Come on. Let's tear Tiptree away from the child, and bloody well go before my mother comes out and finds us here."

They collected Delia from the kitchen, and followed a few metres behind her as she led them down the crazy-paving of the garden path, down past the anti-apparition wards. The sun was bright and warm, and the old wizard was still tending the garden – he waved a friendly goodbye that Hermione returned and Draco didn't. He seemed lost in thought, head bowed and eyes darkened, staring at his feet instead of the beautiful scenery as they strolled along behind Delia.

"At least she didn't have a fit over you and me," Hermione said brightly, as the thought crossed her mind. "She actually seemed…all right with it. That's something, isn't it?"

He glanced up from his booted feet, flashing her a vague, distracted smile that was gone as quickly as it came. "Yeah, I suppose so," he said absently, and Hermione knew he was only humouring her. She guessed it didn't really count for much.

"Hurry up, you two," Delia said loudly, waving them over to where she waited impatiently.

"Come on," Hermione said, squeezing Draco's hand, making her voice cheerful and positive. "Let's go home."

When they got back to Godric's Hollow, the house was all of a flurry. The first thing they heard walking in the door was Mr Weasley desperately trying to soothe Mrs Weasley. They shot each other a puzzled look, listening as Mr Weasley said from the direction of the lounge, "Calm down Molly, calm down. There's no point in yelling at the boy. He hasn't done anything wrong."

"_Hasn't done anything wrong?_" Mrs Weasley shrilled indignantly as Hermione poked her head through the archway into the lounge, to see everyone gathered there, and Ron and Cho holding hands in the middle of the room, Cho looking like she wanted to disappear into the floor, Ron stubbornly determined, Mrs Weasley flustered and upset, and everyone else horribly embarrassed.

"He's a grown man, Molly. Not your baby anymore. Got to let him leave the nest sometime, hmm? This should be a happy occasion."

"He's too young, Arthur! They're both too young! Don't know _what _they're doing…"

"Now, now, Molly. That's not true. You know it's not," Mr Weasley tried in placating tones, and Mrs Weasley dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron, nodding a little as she acknowledged Arthur's point. Hermione sidled over to Ginny and Harry, leaving Draco to hang back by the doorway, obviously half-amused by the scene.

"Ron proposed, huh?" Hermione whispered as she came up behind Harry and Ginny, who both had their eyes glued to the entertainment.

"Yup," Harry muttered distractedly, not moving his gaze from the scene playing out in front of them. "He proposed, she said yes –"

"And mum proceeded to have a fit. Why I don't know – you'd think she'd be glad to get Ron off her hands," Ginny finished in a whisper.

"I think she's a little ah, on edge, after finally realising that the twins and Angelina are…_hmmhmm_," Harry added meaningfully, a hint of humour in his voice.

"I _thought_ they were!" Hermione whispered excitedly, oddly pleased that she hadn't just been imagining things. "And no, I don't imagine she'd take _that_ well."

"Hasn't actually said a word about it, far as I know," Harry said. "But the disapproving glares she's been giving the twins – well, if looks could kill…"

He fell silent; not wanting to miss what was being said as Mrs Weasley finally began getting over the shock of her baby boy declaring his intentions to marry Cho. Hermione watched, amused, as prevarications, apologies, genuine congratulations, and finally, hugs, took place. The excitement over, people began to disperse, and Mrs Weasley, a little embarrassed by her outburst it seemed, bustled out of the room declaring her intention to bake a cake and make something special for dinner, to celebrate. Ron spotted Harry, Ginny and Hermione, and led Cho over, the girl's dark hair swinging about her face as she expertly manoeuvred on her crutches.

"Congratulations," Hermione said, grinning at the pair of them, and Cho beamed at her.

"Thanks," she said, accent broader than usual, flashing a dreamy, blissful smile up at Ron, who looked a little rattled by his mother's reaction, but mostly, pleased as punch.

"Thanks 'Mione," he said, grinning broadly, arm snugged around Cho's waist, the hardness that had taken over his eyes of late no longer there; the blue of them bright and unshadowed. "Bloody hell, would you believe mum? I would've thought she'd be happy. It's _fucking_ Fred and George, putting her in a bloody mood, and who ends up paying the price. Me and Cho. 'S'not fair."

"I'm just sorry I missed the start of the excitement," Hermione said teasingly, and then raised an eyebrow at Cho. "Well…can I see the ring, then?"

Neither half of the newly-engaged couple could wipe the grins off their faces it seemed, as Cho leaned on Ron, unhooking her arm from her crutch and holding it out to Hermione. The ring was white-gold, set with a dainty square-cut sapphire, which was bracketed by two even smaller square-cut rubies – plain and simple, but very elegant, and Hermione was surprised that Ron had thought of the symbolism of having both their house colours in the ring.

"It's only a Muggle ring," Ron said self-deprecatingly. "And hardly the most expensive one either. What I _wanted_ to get was a band of ravens and griffins, with sapphire eyes for the ravens –"

"And rubies for the griffin eyes," Hermione finished, smiling at her friend. "Very thoughtful, Ron."

"Why do you always sound so surprised?" he teased, and then continued. "But of course we can hardly pop out to a magical jeweller's at the moment, and –" he scratched his head, looking a little embarrassed. "– I don't have enough money anyway…"

"You'll just have to get me the ring sometime after the war is over then," Cho said, hanging off Ron and giving him a look of pure happiness that made Hermione's heart hurt to see. "Besides, the ring isn't what's important. What's important is marrying _you_."

"When _will_ the wedding be?" Ginny asked, and Cho and Ron exchanged a look; a brief, silent communication.

"After the mission to Gringotts," Ron said at last, and Hermione could see Cho wasn't entirely happy with that decision. The petite girl in fact muttered, "You know I'd rather do it before."

"Yes, I know," Ron hissed back. "But I'm not marrying you with _that_ hanging over our heads, and you not knowing if I'm coming back alive or not."

"Don't say that!" Cho hissed back, and Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably, reminding the newly-engaged couple that they weren't alone.

"Um, yes, anyway… After the mission to Gringotts," Cho confirmed, pasting a smile back on her face, and within seconds the expression was genuine, and Hermione could see Cho had forgotten about her and Ron's disagreement. Hermione supposed the 'when' of it wasn't so important, really, when Ron and Cho knew it _was_ going to happen, at some point.

"And when are you going to make an honest woman out of my little sister?" Ron jabbed at Harry, who looked a little horrified to have it put in those terms. He blushed, but Ginny was undaunted and completely unembarrassed, giving her older brother narrow-eyed glare.

"When we decide we want to," she said firmly, sticking her nose up in the air and sniffing haughtily. "Unlike _you_, Harry doesn't have to be in a rush for fear I'll come to my senses and realise I don't want to marry him after all. No offence, Cho."

Cho smiled and chuckled to herself, and Ron went a lobster-red that clashed with his hair. "You keep your nose out of my relationship, Ronald," Ginny finished, and then poked her tongue out at him and tugged Harry away. Ron gave Hermione an assessing look, and then his gaze darted to Draco, over by the doorway still, and a mischievous look lit up his blue eyes.

"What about you and Malfoy…" he began and Hermione felt a sharp hurt bore straight through her. She tried to keep the hurt from showing on her face, but she wasn't sure if she succeeded. "Don't – don't start with me, Ron." She tried to make the brittle edge to her voice into a joke, a play-scolding of Ron, much as Ginny had just done. But some of the raw bitterness – the jealous she felt welling up no matter how hard she tried to squash it – bled through it. "You really think _Draco_ and I are going to get engaged? And married? Don't be ridiculous," she finished with a hard laugh, envy burning her up as she stared at the happy couple in front of her.

They might have the war hanging over their heads, and their future might be uncertain thanks to that, but they were still lucky. If they both survived the war – please, Merlin let them survive, Hermione thought with sudden fierceness – their future was stretched out in front of them, crystal clear and unobstructed; their relationship had an easy road ahead, with no obstacles other than those they made for themselves. God, Hermione would do anything for that opportunity. And after the war she and Draco got to look forward to trials, and Azkaban, and ostracism from wizarding society, and if Draco had his way, probably an end to their relationship. She couldn't keep that bitterness from showing.

The smile on Ron's face flickered, and died, and Hermione felt guilty for tarnishing his day with her own problems. She summoned up a smile, bright and gleaming and _hollow_ underneath. "Anyway," she said lamely. "Congratulations, Ron, Cho. The ring is gorgeous." She nodded at them both and backed away awkwardly, and luckily the pair of them were distracted by Luna, approaching to make her own congratulations, no doubt. She looked for Draco but couldn't see him – he must have vanished off to her room, or the cellar, unless he was tucked away in a corner somewhere and she couldn't see him through the press of people. She wondered if he'd overheard her exchange with Ron, and rather hoped he hadn't. It was best when they both pretended there were no problems looming ahead and left the future to the future, living in the moment.

"Hermione. You look like you need a cuddle to cheer you up," Tonks' cheerful, vaguely sympathetic voice came from Hermione's right, as she moved through the room, looking for Draco. Hermione abandoned her search and turned to smile faintly at Tonks, and take Teddy's tiny chubby hand between her finger and thumb, giving it a little shake and bestowing a somewhat wider smile on him.

"I could never say no to a cuddle with little Teddy," she cooed, grinning as Teddy made a squawking sound and pursed his lips up, little dark blue eyes steady on Hermione's face, one hand batting at the air. Tonks transferred the baby with ease, and Hermione cradled him carefully, rocking him in her arms, and he nestled into her happily, warm and cuddly, and smelling sweet of milk and talcum powder.

"I would've thought this was an occasion for celebration, but you don't look particularly happy right now," Tonks probed gently, catching Hermione's eye and giving her a questioning look. Hermione shrugged. She could be honest with Tonks. The only person Tonks told private things to was Remus, being her husband and all, and _he_ never breathed a word about other people's business.

"Oh, I'm happy for Ron, and Cho. I just can't help…feeling a little envious."

"Envious?"

"That they have a future," Hermione said quietly, ducking her eyes to little Teddy's face, and putting on a smile for him, stroking his fat little cheek with the side of one finger. Such soft, velvety skin. He gave her a gassy smile, and she made a face at him, tickled his chin.

"And you and Draco don't?" Tonks asked just as quietly, the two of them and Teddy tucked away in a corner of the lounge, their words drowned out by the celebratory conversation going on around them, and the record Mrs Weasley had put on to play. With the war going on, people seized any opportunity to focus on something other than the stress and strain, and let down their hair.

"We haven't really talked about it – in fact, we've _avoided _talking about it – but I'm fairly certain he's still of the opinion that he can't ask me to be with him after the war, that it wouldn't be fair on me to be with him, what with prison, or exclusion from wizarding society… He's so stupidly _stubborn_." Hermione was warming up to the subject – it was actually a relief to let it out. "He doesn't seem to understand that I don't _care_ about what wizarding society thinks. I don't _care_ if he loses the Malfoy money, I don't _care_ if I have to wait for him to get out of Azkaban – I love him. We…work. That's all that matters, right?"

Tonks gave Hermione a long, measuring look. "_I_ thought it was all that matters," she said at last. "And look at us now – happily married, with a baby, and who gives a toss what wizarding society thinks of us anyway. He thought it wouldn't work out either, same as Draco. Said he was too old, a werewolf, he couldn't offer me anything, and that it was a terrible idea. He was _bloody_ stubborn too."

"So how did you convince him?"

"I was persistent, and he came around," Tonks said with a flash of a predatory grin, and glanced across the room at her husband, who was absorbed in conversation with Harry. Hermione jiggled Teddy, thoughts flashing through her head. If it had worked out for Tonks and Remus, perhaps there really was hope for her and Draco…although to be fair, their situation wasn't _that_ similar to Tonks and Remus'. Remus hadn't been facing time in Azkaban. And Hermione thought of how Lucius Malfoy's time in Azkaban had changed him, and shuddered.

"What if he gets Azkaban? What if he gets _years?_ What if it drives him mad? What if there's nothing left of him when he gets out, because the Dementors have sucked everything good and happy out of him, and –" She was clutching Teddy tightly, the words pouring out of her as she held in her tears desperately, eyes stinging, until Tonks laid a hand on her arm and said, "Hermione."

One word, filled with calming, firm, reason. Hermione snapped her mouth shut, choked down her tears, and Tonks patted her arm. "Hermione, we – the Order – are going to do everything we can to make sure Draco doesn't get a prison sentence after the war. We're not going to just throw him to the Dementors. If we _can_, we'll keep him out of Azkaban."

A bolt of hot relief rushed through Hermione, the warmth suffusing her, making her feel weak and limp with a level of _relief_ she'd rarely felt. Her eyes were wide on Tonks as she clutched Teddy to her chest and asked, "Really? You'd – you'd do that for him?"

"For him, yes. And for you too, Hermione. For both of you. Remus and I have talked it over this past week with Kingsley, Molly, Arthur, Professor McGonagall – everyone. And everyone's in agreement." Tonks gave Hermione an unexpectedly gentle smile. "Draco may have caused harm while on the other side, but he's changed, he's sincerely remorseful, and he's working to make up for his mistakes – he's putting his own _life_ at risk to make up for the wrongs he's done. He deserves a second chance."

"Oh Merlin…Tonks, thank you. Thank you so much. I – I –" She felt like she was about to cry, but if she did they would be happy tears. It felt like an enormous weight had been lifted off her shoulders, and she was free and light.

"Hermione, wait. We – can't promise anything."

"What?" The word burst out and the weight came crashing back down on Hermione's shoulders, and it felt like Tonks had played a horrible, cruel joke on her. Tonks winced, sympathy shaping her features.

"Like I said, Hermione – if we _can_. If we _can._ We don't know who's going to be Minister of Magic after the war; we don't know who's going to comprise the Wizengamot. There's an awful lot we _don't_ know, and I'm not sure how much weight our recommendations will hold after the war is over and done. We'll do what we can to keep Draco out of Azkaban, or reduce whatever punishment he gets, if we feel it's unreasonable, but we can't make promises. That – that was why we hadn't told you yet. We didn't want to give you false hope. But then you seemed so miserable just now, I didn't think it could hurt to tell you what we'd decided."

Hermione gulped down a deep breath and tried to steady her swirling head, Teddy a small, comforting weight in her arms, a centring presence. She tried to sort through her thoughts, order her tumultuous emotions, and finally lifted her eyes to Tonks'.

"I understand," she said calmly, the barest tremor to her voice. "I – thank you, Tonks. That means a lot to me, knowing that you all believe in Draco – that you're willing to speak for him – and I know it'll mean a lot to him, too." She smiled ruefully. "Not that he'll admit it."

"No promises," Tonks reminded warningly, still concerned. Hermione nodded, smiling, a little wobble to her chin. "No promises. I understand that, and I don't expect…you to work miracles, but – it's more hope than we had before, isn't it?"

"That's the spirit," Tonks said heartily, and squeezed Hermione's shoulder. "Now why don't you go tell him the news? See what he says to that, hmm?"

"I will," Hermione beamed, finding her equilibrium as the reality of the situation finally settled in. They didn't have a foolproof solution, but they had a far better chance for happiness than Hermione had thought they did five minutes ago. It was something. It was…enough. She held out Teddy to Tonks, a little reluctantly – he was just so _snuggle-able_ – and the older witch bit her lip, looked hopefully at Hermione. "I don't suppose you could look after him for a little while? I wouldn't mind spending ten minutes with Remus without Teddy attached to one of us, and he looks so happy right there…"

Hermione looked down at Teddy and chuckled. He _did_ look happy. He was lolling contentedly in her arms, a little trickle of drool seeping from one corner of his mouth, arms waving lazily and aimlessly through the air. "Sure, I can mind Teddy for you."

"When he starts getting grumpy or you get sick of lugging him about, just bring him back to me or Remus." Tonks kissed Teddy quickly on the forehead and began backing away in Remus' direction. "Be good for your Aunt 'Mione, Teddy. Thanks, Hermione."

"My pleasure," Hermione called after the older witch, who was beating a quick retreat to Remus' side, and then hefted little Teddy up in her arms. "Right, Teddy. Shall we go see your Uncle Draco –" Merlin that sounded strange – Uncle Draco. He'd hate it, Hermione knew it, and that was what made it all the more amusing. "– and tell him the good news?" Teddy made another happy squawking noise, which Hermione took as assent, sidling out of the lounge, and heading up the stairs to look for Draco in her room.

**Author's Notes:** I am still not entirely happy with the end of this chapter, but I just could not work the kinks out of it, so I'm throwing standards to the winds and posting it anyway.

I'd love to know what you all think of Narcissa's letters, and the meeting with Draco, Hermione and Narcissa. Were the letters a good take on the situation from Narcissa's perspective? I tried very, very hard to get the first letter just right, making it as realistic as possible, in character, and hopefully, evoking a mix of sympathy for her, understanding, and irritation, so I'd love to know what your reactions were.

I also wanted Tonks to be the one to introduce a bit of hope to Hermione and Draco's future :) And hell, I can't think that the Order _wouldn't_ put in a good word for Draco, or even fight for him, after what he's done, fighting for the Order recently. As Tonks said, he's definitely trying to make up for the harm he's done.

Only three or four chapters to go of _The Risk-Reward__Ratio_ now, and then I'll be starting on the sequel, The Just World Fallacy. It's so exciting to be nearly finished this one, finally, and I can't wait to get to the next!

Next chapter we see some downtime in Godric's Hollow, including Draco and Teddy (!), Star Wars watching, people other than Draco and Hermione getting caught in the pantry, Pansy and Hermione having a conversation, and much more. Then, the chapter after that, the Russian base mission goes down, and things begin to move to a climax…

Because I'm busy in a storm of mad writing and am too lazy to PM everyone, a big thanks to everyone who's reviewed lately:

ndzfinest – Hiiii! Yay, thanks! You may yet get your wish, re: Lucius ::evil grin::

Kat-Knife – thank you! It's so nice to hear I've been missed :P

Iseult_ –_ Yay! Glad to hear you think I'm starting to get back on form :) THe assault on Gringotts is coming up _very_ soon.

HarleenQuinzel - ::blush:: thank you!

Malfoil-lover – thanks for reviewing! I hope you enjoyed this chapter

Stephmarie995 – fair criticism :) I'm glad you like the story, and I can see your point regarding Hermione. I guess after everything I've had happen to Hermione since the prologue, she's sort of evolved and grown/altered/changed as a person. Or at least, that's my excuse :P

Hunter's Heir – thank you so much! I'm so glad you liked it

Calimocho – Thanks! Russia should hopefully be…exciting :D

Ashley Ayoub – a prompt update for you :) Hope you enjoyed!

_Reviews plz ::holds out begging hat for reviews::_


	41. Be Ok

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favourited. I appreciate it enormously, and it's a great motivator :)

**Trigger warnings** for discussion of rape. Also, in this **(epically long)** chapter, I feature the phrase from **ohmygoditsnikkie's** gorgeous, amazing cover image, which I am incredibly grateful to have. Isn't it just beautiful? And I really wanted to find a place to include the prase, because it's lovely, so…it's in there :D This chapter sort of goes from _happy and sort of fluffy_, to _soul-suckingly crushingly awful_ and then ends back up at _happy but not quite fluffy_, which was not at all what I'd planned, but I like it how it's ended up. Abject apologies for any typos that may slip through.

_Enjoy!_

_**# # #**_

40. Be Ok

_I just want to feel today, feel today, feel today_

_I just want to feel something today_

_I just want to know today, know today, know today_

_Know that maybe I will be ok_

_[Be Ok, Ingrid Michaelson]_

_**# # #**_

Draco fiddled with his wand – not really his; rather, it had belonged to an Auror who'd been killed in action some months ago, and thus had no more need for it. But it was Draco's now, and it worked well for him, despite not being a wand that had chosen him but one he had been issued. In fact, it worked far better than he would have expected or hoped for, his spells casting true and strong, and without hesitation. No matter who its owner had once been, it obviously now recognised Draco as an acceptable master. It was plain, without any carvings inscribed into it or ornamentation at all. Willow, with unicorn hair core, twelve inches, yielding. He turned it lengthways, around and around in his hands, staring at Hermione's bedroom door from his position on her bed; back against the wall, legs dangling over the edge. He would have gone down to his room in the cellar, but he suspected Pansy would be there, and he didn't want to deal with her right now. She was too fucking draining.

He was thinking. Lost in his thoughts, playing the brief conversation between Weasley and Hermione over and over in his head and trying to figure out what he felt about it. Her words and tone echoed in his head like an accusation – _"You really think Draco and I are going to get engaged? And married? Don't be ridiculous." _The bitterness in her voice had been like a slap in the face, and for what felt like the hundredth time, Draco wondered if he'd just made things worse, by allowing himself the selfishness of being with her again.

But no matter what he did or what he said, she wouldn't let go of him, and Merlin, he only had so much willpower. He couldn't keep pushing her away when she was so determined to have him, and he _wanted_ her so badly. He wasn't made of bloody stone. So he'd left the future to the future, and tried to pretend that the war would never end, as twisted as that sounded. And then Draco saw her standing there congratulating a proud Weasley and a glowing Cho Chang, and he realised what she was losing by being with him. Their relationship had been doomed from the beginning; had a time limit set on it, and the clock was ticking away steadily. Because Hermione could never have the normal relationship she deserved if she was with him, and he sure as hell wasn't letting himself drag her down.

He'd leave her before he tainted her by association, and turned the general wizarding public on her. He wouldn't have her life, her career chances, her _reputation_ irreparably tarred through being the girl who had fallen into a _relationship_ with Draco Malfoy, that ex-Death Eater whose actions had led to Albus Dumbledore's death. Who had tortured Muggles and Muggleborns. Who had given victims to Greyback. Who – The door swung open and he tensed, blanked his face and took a deep breath, stilling his circling thoughts.

Hermione pushed the door open, and the first thing he saw was the blazing smile on her face and her bright firewhiskey eyes – happiness written all over her. And then his eyes slid down and he saw, in her arms, the baby; Teddy Lupin. His cousin's child, which made the infant his first cousin once removed. Or possibly his second cousin – he could never keep genealogy straight, and didn't really care enough to work it out. At any rate, the tiny newborn was snuggled against her chest swaddled up in a bright knitted blanket, wispy dark purple baby fuzz atop his tiny head, and a small fist tangled in a thick hank of Hermione's wavy, chestnut brown hair.

Something very primal _roared_ to life in Draco's chest at the sight of Hermione with a baby held to her chest, its cheek pillowed against the gentle swell of her breasts, her arms secure around it, one hand splayed out to cradle its head. She looked so natural with the child, so at ease, cradling it to her with a protective, secure grace. His breath choked in his throat and the thought sprang into his head unbidden: _mine_ – that should be _my _child in her arms. The sheer intensity of the unexpected, unasked for thought was almost frightening, and Draco sucked in a sharp breath, eyes wide on Hermione, picturing her with _his_ child. And then he blinked and shoved down that feeling, back down into his chest where it coiled down around his heart, _waiting_ pointlessly, because that could never happen.

Another thing that Draco couldn't – no, _wouldn't_ – give Hermione.

"I have good news," she crowed, jouncing the baby gently, hips swaying as she rocked on the spot, quieting the infant's soft mewls.

"You stole my cousin's baby?"

"That would be good news?" Her lips twitched in a smile and Draco felt himself flush hot, damnit; feeling as though she'd somehow reached into his head and seen what he'd just been thinking.

"No. Ah. Not particularly. But _you_ might think it was…" he muttered with a sullen note to his voice, feeling set off balance by the look on Hermione's face, by her whole demeanour. She came into the room properly, pushing the door shut behind her with one foot, _radiating_ joy, and Draco wondered with his heart suddenly in his throat _what_ had made her so happy. His mind leaped to the best possible things. The war was over. Voldemort was dead. His mother had said she wanted nothing more to do with his father. Draco was going to be decorated as a war hero. Ridiculous, improbable possibilities flashed through his mind.

And she just kept grinning at him, like the cat from that ridiculous, weird old Muggle book she'd given him.

"Well, what is it then?" he asked brusquely, bracing himself for disappointment. What might count for good news in Hermione Granger's world? "Chang or Weasley want you to stand up by them at the wedding?" he guessed, and Hermione shook her head.

"They're going to fight for you – the Order's going to fight for you," she said, face shining with that fierce joy, and Draco didn't understand.

"What…?"

"After the war," she said, excitement pouring out of her, infusing the air with a crisp hum of anticipation. "The senior Order members will speak for you. Do what they can to make sure…that everything turns out okay."

Draco just stared at Hermione, still not getting it, her words still not sinking in. His brain felt shocked into dull, frozen befuddlement. "They… What?"

"They're going to tell the Ministry that you deserve a second chance. Tonks just told me. They've talked about it this past week while we weren't here, and came to a unanimous decision that they will do whatever they can to make sure you aren't…punished…after the war is over."

Draco shook his head; stunned, unable to process or even _begin_ to comprehend what the _hell_ Hermione had just dropped on him. "It…They…" The words felt thick on his tongue. "They're going to stop me from going to Azkaban?" he echoed, trying to make sense of it. Because it didn't make sense that they would do _that_ for _him_. It seemed like a joke, a cruel trick, and he didn't trust it – _couldn't_ trust it. He couldn't risk having his hopes built up and then dashed to smithereens.

"They'll try," Hermione said, still grinning, her face nearly split in two by the wide expression of joy, her eyes sparkling. She shrugged a little, jostling Teddy Lupin who mewled and yanked at her hair, making her wince. Draco watched, mesmerised as she carefully untangled Teddy's fingers from her hair and caught the chubby little star of a hand that flailed in the air, kissed it lightly.

"Tonks made no promises," she went on, a little more subdued at that, but still glowing like she was lit from within. "They don't know who will make up the Wizengamot after the war, or who will be the Minister of Magic, so they can't promise that they'll clear you of everything, that there will be _no_ consequences. But they're the _Order of the Phoenix_ – they're going to have _some_ influence after the war, no matter who makes up the Ministry and Wizengamot, I'm sure of it. And they'll do what they can to make sure you aren't treated punitively."

She paused and took a deep breath, bubbling over with happiness.

"It's something, isn't it?" she asked him, voice all strained and tangled with joy and hope and a twinge of worry, and Draco just sat there, unable to believe her. Why the hell would the Order speak for him? Why would they do a damn thing for _him?_ He didn't deserve it, wasn't worth it, and Merlin, it didn't seem natural or probable that the Order would make any sort of effort for him. Draco Malfoy. He was just… He ducked his head, rubbing his hand over his face as if that would somehow help clear his mind, chest tight, feeling light-headed, dazed. The bed dipped and he glanced up to see Hermione sitting there beside him with Teddy still cuddled close, watching Draco worriedly.

"Are you…all right?" she asked, tension writing itself around her eyes, a puzzled almost-hurt in her tone. She had been expecting him to turn bloody cartwheels or something, Draco realised belatedly, not sit here as blankly as if he'd been hit by a _stupefy_ hex. He tried to pull himself together, but he'd just had the possibility of a fucking _happy future_ plonked in his lap without any ceremony. Just had entire, wonderful possibilities open up in front of him. Had bloody _hope_ shoved down his throat and it had been so long since he'd had any, that he was choking on it. Utterly fucking gobsmacked.

"Yeah," he croaked in answer, not sounding all right in the slightest, nodding his head dazedly. "Yeah, I'm…fine. Just…fucking bloody hell, _they'll speak for me?_" It still made no sense, but Hermione smiled and nodded hard, looking as if she wanted to squeal and shriek and jump for joy. Draco tried to summon enthusiasm, but he really just felt like he was going to bloody pass out from the shock. His head was spinning, and his mouth moved wordlessly as he tried to summon thoughts, words, _anything_ to spit out and show Hermione that he really _was_ happy.

"_Why?_" he asked instead, almost as if she hadn't given him good news but bad, and Hermione chuffed a frustrated half-laughing sound.

"My god, Draco, does that _matter?_ There's a chance that you won't go to Azkaban! A chance that everything you've done for the Order since you defected will be counted, and could _outweigh_ what you did while you were a…" her voice wavered and halted briefly before she said quietly, "Death Eater." She looked away from him, down at Teddy, tucking a corner of the blanket more securely around the baby. When she spoke again, her voice was stronger and excited once more. "We – _we_ – could have a future. If you don't go to Azkaban, if the general public is made to recognise that you've changed, that you've been doing good, that you've put your life on the line for the cause… Everything changes, don't you see?"

She just acknowledged plainly and bluntly what they'd both been so assiduously trying to ignore and pretend wasn't an issue, and Draco instinctively flinched at that. And then he shook himself, everything finally sinking in past the shock. "Everything changes…" he repeated, half a question to the words, his mind racing, automatically seeking out the negatives. Probing her news for holes and flaws, seeing if it was really as good as it first appeared. Draco was a realist, and he wasn't going to get excited simply because it _sounded_ good at first. That was the best way to get false hope.

"No promises?" he asked Hermione, and she frowned at him ever so slightly, obviously wondering why he wasn't in paroxysms of joy yet, but she nodded dutifully.

"No, no promises. But…they're _the Order_. Professor McGonagall, Remus, Kingsley, Tonks, Professor Flitwick – important people with good standing in wizarding society; people who will have a _great_ deal of influence, considering the importance of their roles in fighting the war. I think Tonks was being overly cautious when she said 'no promises' – how could the future Ministry _not_ listen to them, if they advise that you should be given a second chance?" Hermione was all glowing, hopeful optimism, and Draco shook his head, ducking his eyes to his lap, mind working.

"She said no promises for a reason, Hermione – because she doesn't want us to get our hopes _too_ high. Because there's a chance that the Order _won't_ be listened to, that they _won't_ be able to convince the Ministry to give Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater a second chance, without first giving him his just punishments."

"Oh, _don't do this_," Hermione snapped, and he could tell she would have been louder and shriller if it weren't for Teddy Lupin dozing in her arms. "Don't turn something _good_ into nothing but more negativity, thanks to your eternal _stupid_ pessimism. It might not be _certain_, but it's still more hope than we had, isn't it? It's still worth celebrating – isn't it?"

He dragged in a deep, steadying breath, eyes searching over Hermione's face, and felt guilty for tainting the moment. For ruining a moment that, for her, had been something filled with boundless, mindless joy. She managed to get a hand free, and laid it on Draco's thigh, smiling hopefully at him, small and encouraging. A seed of something warm blossomed in his chest, and he smiled back.

"It is, at that. I – don't get me wrong, Hermione. I'm happy. I'm fucking _shocked_ that the Order would want to do that for _me_. I'm…I just don't want you thinking that it's all a foregone conclusion and everything will be perfect, just because Nymphadora said she and the others would _try_." Draco nibbled at his lower lip, debating whether or not to add the other thing that lingered at the back of his mind, like a pall over the joy. He didn't want to ruin Hermione's happiness further, but it needed to be said. He added it quietly, apologetically. "And the Order speaking for me to the Ministry, to try to avoid or reduce criminal punishment, won't necessarily stop wizarding society from ostracising me. It won't stop the wizarding public from trying and convicting me in the court of public opinion. I'll still be –"

"Oh fucking _stop it_," Hermione snapped viciously, jiggling little Teddy gently in the crook of her arm. "You know I don't give a bloody _damn_ about that. You know I don't care what wizarding society thinks. I'm not some pure blood to whom it matters. I'm a Muggleborn. I spent the first half of my life not even being aware magic _existed_. With no idea there _was_ a magical community living invisibly alongside the Muggle one. Do you really think I'd care what they think? I don't _need_ them, I don't _need _their approval. I did perfectly well without it, and them, and I can do so again if need be. It's certainly not worth losing you."

She glowed when she was angry, eyes sparking and cheeks flushing, and Merlin, she looked fucking beautiful. Like she had that day at Hogwarts, on the hill when she'd hauled off and smacked him one – and to be perfectly honest, scared the living shite out of him. He hadn't expected goody two-shoes Granger would _ever_ dare to strike him, and it had left him fucking staggered. Not to mention humiliated and furious. But when he recalled the memory, coloured by what he knew and felt _now_ in the present, she looked fucking sexy as hell in the memory. Just like she did now, face flushed and alive with a gorgeous, bright anger, even as her arm snugged gentle and careful around Teddy – an odd and incongruous juxtaposition. Draco grinned at her, unable to help himself, and nodded surrender.

"Well then," he capitulated smirkingly. "Fair enough. You make a good point, Hermione…and I get the feeling that if I try to disagree with you, you'll up and hit me again, like you did that time –"

"Oh, screw you, _Malfoy_," she said, but she was grinning too, and he could see the memory in her eyes, and the smirking, smug edge to her grin. She had bloody well _enjoyed_ hitting him, he could see it, and well…Draco found there was something oddly bloody sexy about that, too. He slid forward on the bed, hand coming up to cup the curve of her cheek and turn her face to his, their lips meeting hot and damply, hers parting, her tongue darting out to skim over his lower lip. A shot of arousal cracked through his belly, and a humming moan slipped from him, his fingers spasmed and pressed harder against the soft, smooth skin of her face. Hermione whimpered in return as his tongue flicked delicately, teasingly into her mouth, grazed over hers, and she leaned forward, pushing her mouth harder against his, one hand grabbing his shirt at his shoulder, dragging him to her.

And then a small, warm hand pushed up against Draco's jaw, and a little cooing noise broke through the moment and shattered it into a thousand pieces. Draco dragged his mouth away from Hermione's and stared down at Teddy with exasperated amusement, the infant now trying his damndest to shove his entire small saliva-covered fist into Draco's mouth. He twisted his face away from Teddy, pushing the fist away, and Hermione stifled a snort at Draco's disgusted expression, catching Teddy's arm and tucking it back into the swaddling. She pressed her lips together tightly, but smiled despite her efforts not to, a few breathy chuckles escaping as Draco tried to wipe Teddy's drool off his face with the end of his sleeve.

"And people say babies are adorable," Draco said dryly, then paused and wiped his tongue with the hem of his sleeve, making a face. "I say they're highly disgusting, messy creatures, who are excellent at preventing any possible siblings from coming along and being competition. Absolutely not worth it. Ensuring the continuation of the bloodline is highly overrated by pure blood society."

Hermione smiled tolerantly at him, all condescending affection. "I saw your face when I walked in with Teddy. I'm not blind, Draco. You looked –"

"We are _not_ fucking having this conversation now," Draco cut in desperately before Hermione could say anything else, a brilliant hot flush of embarrassment rising on his cheeks. He had thought he was better at hiding his emotions than that – obviously not. Not anymore, at least. He'd gotten lazy. "Give the damned baby back to Nymphadora and Lupin," he ordered, raising an eyebrow at her. "You want to celebrate – well, we'll fucking celebrate. And it _isn't_ going to be child-friendly."

He leaned in and nibbled at Hermione's throat and her breath hitched satisfyingly – it was _her_ turn to flush pink and embarrassed, a little moan shivering from her lips.

"I'll, ah, take him downstairs now then, shall I?" she said in a shaky voice, extracting herself from him, simultaneously hurried and reluctant, and Draco smirked lazily up at her. He sank back on the bed, mind drifting as he waited for Hermione to come back up sans baby, so they could _celebrate_. She was right about the Order members speaking for him; their chances were now far better than what they'd had, even if nothing was certain, and Draco decided to allow himself to luxuriate in hope for once, unwise as it might be. Luxuriate in hope, and in her, he thought, and smirked again.

_**# # #**_

One Week Later

It would take time for their plans to infiltrate a Russian chemical weapons storage facility to be laid by the more senior Order members involved in the mission; first they had to find it, and then figure out how to gain access, which involved creating a delicate web of _obliviates_, stolen memories, and carefully placed _Imperius_ curses, amongst other preparations. They expected it would take several weeks for the mission to be a go, and until then everyone going on the Russian base mission, as they referred to it, had some much appreciated downtime, more or less. Or as close to downtime as the war would allow for, at least.

Harry, and the others who were breaking into British military bases to steal the other things they needed for the attack on Gringotts, weren't getting any downtime, though. Ron had managed to get himself put on Harry's team, and the two of them were in the thick of it; rushing around like a couple of overblown spies from the cheap novels that were Hermione's father's guilty pleasure. The invisibility cloak got more use than it had seen since their days sneaking around Hogwarts, and Hermione, Cho, and Ginny took great pleasure in quietly mocking the boys' childlike enthusiasm for something that was deadly serious.

Kingsley and Remus had estimated that the Russian base mission would be ready to be carried out by early June, and the few weeks preceding it were oddly quiet in general. A few minor unrelated missions took place, which Hermione and Draco went out on, but nothing major happened. Mostly, she just sat around at the Godric's Hollow house, enjoying the lull.

Right now, the television that Hermione had taken from her parents' empty house was on in the lounge, the curtains drawn, the glow of the telly lighting the room as The Empire Strikes Back played on the VCR that Dean Thomas had borrowed from his Muggle grandparents' house. Seamus had been to visit his mother a while back, and come back with an enormous stack of videos, and somehow the week since Ron and Cho's engagement had turned into a disturbingly _Muggle_ movie marathon. No one was allowed to use magic within the vicinity of the lounge; unlike Hogwarts, the Godric's Hollow house _wasn't_ drenched in centuries upon centuries of magic that made Muggle technology unreliable, if indeed it worked at all. They had discovered however, over the past week, that the residual magic that _was_ there made the telly flicker a bit, and actually using magic within the vicinity of the lounge made the it buzz with static, and threw the VCR into fast-forward.

Hermione supposed they were just lucky the house had power points; Harry's parents must have bought it from one of the very few Muggle families who lived obliviously in the mostly wizarding community, or perhaps a squib who had been up to date with Muggle advances. Hermione wasn't as keen on Star Wars as Seamus seemed to be, but there was something delicious and strange to being cuddled up on the couch with Draco, sharing a bowl of popcorn as they watched the movie. She felt almost like she could be any ordinary, teenage Muggle girl, spending time with her ordinary, teenage Muggle boyfriend.

They didn't have much privacy, though. Ron and Cho were canoodling shamelessly on an easy chair, and Harry and Ginny were tucked away in another armchair in a discreetly dark corner, doing Merlin knew what. Dean, Seamus, and Neville were occupying the other couch, and Luna had created a nest of cushions for herself, and was lying on her stomach on the floor in front of the telly. Dean and Seamus kept reminding the blonde girl to stop kicking her heels idly in the air in front of the screen, while Neville watched her with the glazed stare of terrified infatuation. It was very sweet.

"I think Luke Skywalker should have joined the Dark Side," Draco observed, tossing a piece of popcorn in his mouth, eyes glued to the screen.

"Not helping your case that you've _changed_, mate," Ron broke away from Cho long enough to say, a slight teasing tone to his voice, and Hermione grinned to herself, leaning her back against the arm of the couch and laying her legs over Draco's lap. Over the past week, Draco had – at Hermione's insistence – spent more time around the Order members, and as a result he was no longer quite so much on the outside, but part of the group, if still a peripheral part. She didn't think he knew quite what to do with that acceptance, or what to do when Ron bantered with him in that prickly, insulting-but-not-really way that he and Draco seemed to communicate through.

"No, really. He should have pretended to join the Dark Side, and then secretly worked to overthrow the Emperor when the old bastard least expected it. It makes far more sense. Play along now, to get the upper hand later," Draco pointed out, and Ron snorted.

"Hah. It makes sense to a _Slytherin_," he shot back.

"_Exactly,_" Draco said smugly as if Ron had proved his point, and Ron spluttered in speechless annoyance for a moment, before Dean shushed everyone impatiently.

"Shut up and watch the bloody movie, you two. Fight on your own time. And Luna, put your feet down or I'll make Neville go sit on your legs."

Even in the faint blue glow of the telly, Hermione could see Neville turn a brilliant puce colour, and shoot Dean a half-hearted glare. Draco huffed under his breath at Dean's rebuke, but didn't say anything else, just sank back against the couch cushions, long legs stretched out in front of him, his hand drifting to Hermione's feet, kneading them firmly. She hummed a happy little sigh as his thumb pressed into the sensitive arch of her sole, dragging along it and making her feet tingle and the tension run out of her. She sank her head back and watched the movie in utterly boneless, limp, contentment, slowly picking her way through the bowl of popcorn as Draco absently massaged her feet.

After the movie finished, Dean and Seamus put on The Return of the Jedi, which everyone was immediately absorbed in, except perhaps Harry and Ginny, and Ron and Cho, both couples being more interested in each other than the telly. By the time the rebel base on Hoth evacuated, however, Hermione was getting sick of staring at the screen without a break and slipped out of the lounge, waving for Draco to stay and finish watching the movie. She nipped through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, and perhaps have a chat with Mrs Weasley for lack of else to do. Except Mrs Weasley was out of the kitchen for once, and Pansy Parkinson was at the scarred old kitchen table with a mug of something.

Hermione froze, feeling immediately horribly awkward, and wondering if she could back quietly out of the doorway before Pansy saw her. But the thin girl looked up, and glanced over her shoulder at Hermione, and then wordlessly turned her attention back to her drink. Hermione worried at her lip, sidling into the kitchen and over to the kettle, filling it up and setting it over the kitchen range to boil, lighting the wood in the range with a quick spell and pulling a mug out of the cupboard, dropping a tea bag in it. And then there was nothing to do but wait for the water to boil. Hermione turned around, leaning back against the kitchen bench and eying Pansy nervously.

"Hello. Ah, how are you?" she asked Pansy in a voice that sounded too-loud and too-brittle, and the Slytherin girl shot Hermione a slightly scornful look over the rim of her mug.

"Just dandy," Pansy replied with weary contempt, setting her mug back down on the table, a faint smile on her lips as she stared at Hermione, without a hint of the nerves Hermione felt. "I couldn't be happier."

"There's no need to be –" _Sarcastic_, Hermione nearly said, and then cut herself off as she remembered that this wasn't Hogwarts, and things had changed. "Sorry," she amended instead, trying to be polite but still half-mumbling the word. "Silly question."

Pansy gave her an appraising look and then sipped at her mug, draining the last of whatever it was – although from the shudder to Pansy's shoulders as she gulped, and the slur in her voice, Hermione was guessing alcohol dependency was a Slytherin tradition – and idly pushing her cup around the table in little circles and figures of eight. Hermione watched the girl in her peripheral vision as she waited for the kettle to boil, the silence deafening and horridly, crushingly awkward. She supposed it was progress that Pansy was coming up out of the cellar now, even if she was still avoiding the Order members. Draco had been spending time with the Slytherin girl every day – Hermione told herself she was fine with Draco sitting in the dim cellar alone with Pansy for hours at a time, comforting the girl, in an odd mirror of the way Hermione had once sat with Draco. And most of the time, she really _was_ okay with it.

Most of the time.

At any rate, it had been at Hermione's insistence that Draco spend time with Pansy, so she couldn't complain about it. She knew her fears were silly, pale things. So what if once Draco and Pansy had been _intimate _at Hogwarts? Things changed, she told herself, and she had no reason to distrust Draco, to believe that there was any chance he and Pansy would ever gravitate back together in _that_ way. It was Hermione's bed that Draco slept in every night, all curled around each other, taking turns soothing away each other's nightmares with whispers and kisses. But still, even though she knew Draco being there to support Pansy was the _right thing to do_, Hermione didn't like the girl. There was too much bad history between them, and the few times she'd seen Pansy since her arrival at Godric's, the girl hadn't really spoken to her – had showed nothing but more of the same old distaste and dislike of Hermione she'd had at school. So it _did_ grate a little that Pansy Parkinson took away from Hermione's – possibly limited, because Merlin knew _what_ the future held – time with Draco.

The kettle started whistling, startling Hermione out of her thoughts, and she took it off the range and glanced over at Pansy again, who was staring blankly into her mug, hair hanging thin and lank around her face and eyes dull. Hermione cleared her throat, offering an olive branch.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked hesitantly, and Pansy's eyes drifted up to Hermione's face, a curiously unsettling look in them.

"Go on then, Granger," Pansy said, grinning and drunk, shoving her mug across the table, and Hermione stepped across the big kitchen and collected it; discreetly sniffed the dregs of liquid in it with her back turned to Pansy. Firewhiskey – just as she'd thought. Hermione wondered how the girl was getting it, because Mrs Weasley was keeping the liquor cabinet locked, and Pansy didn't have a wand to cast an unlocking charm. She bit her lip, thinking, _Draco_ and hoping she was wrong as she rinsed out Pansy's cup, dropped a tea bag in it and filled the two cups with the boiling water, leant back against the bench as she waited for it to brew. She didn't know how Pansy liked her tea but Hermione liked it strong and sweet, so that was how she was making it.

Pansy shouldn't be drinking, she thought to herself, mind on Draco, picturing him sprawled on the couch and watching the movie, just like one of the group. One of the boys. Except in an intrinsic way he wasn't, and never could be – even if they totally and utterly accepted him in every way, and Hermione suspected with gratitude that they were beginning to – he was a Slytherin. And they weren't. It made a difference, it really did. It had to be him who was slipping Pansy alcohol; who else could it be? No one else cared enough about Pansy to do any favours for her. It had to be him, and Hermione only hoped he wasn't partaking in the purloined drink. In her head, she went over every time he had come up from the cellar, trying to remember if she had smelt any alcohol on his breath, heard a slur to his voice, if he avoided her at all for a while after coming up, lest she suspect he was drunk. She couldn't think of anything, but that didn't mean he hadn't been drinking. Just that he was good at hiding it, if he was.

Her mind wrenched back on track. Harry, Ron, Dean, Neville…none of them would ever do what Hermione thought Draco had to be doing. In the same situation, they'd be the ones locking up the liquor cabinet; or they'd go to an adult, or…something. But they what they _wouldn't_ do was feed the person who needed help alcohol to dull the pain, letting the person ignore the problem rather than helping them try to work through it in a healthy way. But Draco would do that. Just like Draco used the Killing Curse on that boy at Ballater, just like… Hermione jerked in a sharp breath, halting her thoughts before they sped even further away from her control.

"So…how are you, ah, settling in here?" Hermione asked – anything to break the awful silence, and distract herself from her circling, unpleasant, and frankly, pointless, thoughts. She hoped the question got a better reception than her 'how are you?' and it did, marginally.

"As well as can be expected," Pansy said with a shrug, tongue tripping over the words here and there, blurring slurs tangling her up. "It's not exactly pleasant here, to be perfectly honest, Granger…but Merlin knows it's better than where I was." She glanced down at her hands, twisted around each other on the scarred oak table. "Not that _that's_ difficult to accomplish."

A wealth of smouldering, sullen anger shone out of Pansy's eyes when she peered up at Hermione. "But then, you know that don't you? I bet your darling Draco tells you _everything_." She drew the last word out, a sneer on her lips, and Hermione refused to take the bait, made herself stay calm. Pansy was drunk and angry, and Hermione would just have to be the mature one in the situation. She lifted out the teabags with a spoon and stirred a spoonful of sugar into each mug, added a slosh of milk.

"Well, not _everything_. I'm sure there are still many things I don't know about him," Hermione said, walking over with the tea and setting a cup on the table in front of Pansy, sitting at the end of the table herself, hands wrapped around her cup. She swallowed, continued in a quiet, calm, voice, actually sharing something real with Pansy and hoping the girl didn't throw it back in her face, but _expecting_ her to do so in her current state. But saying it anyway, because some things needed to be said aloud, and it wasn't important who you spoke them to, just that they were spoken. "Sometimes I look at him and I still see a stranger. But then I'm sure he does the same with me. No one really _knows_ anyone else, do they?"

"Oh stop with the bullshit, Granger. I don't care about that ridiculous philosophising that you probably think is a brilliant attempt to _reach out_ to me. I'm not talking about _that_. I'm talking about the fact that I _know _he told you that his dear daddy…" Pansy's lips twitched and flattened, and her jaw clenched, fingers tightened on each other. "Used me," she said at last, biting the words out like they made her want to be sick, slurring and grating from her lips. And they probably did. Hermione winced, sipped at her tea to give her a moment to think.

"All right, Pansy. Yes, he told me what happened. Not to…not to betray your trust, but because quite frankly, _he_ needed someone to talk to after you told him what had happened. Lucius is his _father_ – it wasn't easy for Draco to find out that it was his own father who had…hurt you like that."

Pansy's lips pursed up and her hand slipped beneath the table, pulling up a bottle of firewhiskey that she sloshed generously into her tea. Hermione wrinkled her nose up at the idea of Pansy getter _drunker_, but didn't say a word.

"Fine. Fair enough. But I still don't fucking like it that _you_ are the one hearing about…" Pansy's face spasmed and her fingers twitched around her mug, lifting it to her lips with a shaking hand and gulping some back, speech growing more and more affected by the drink. "I don't like you, Granger."

"The feeling's mutual, Pansy," Hermione said coolly, emphasising the girl's first name, her voice tight and tension knotting her all up. "But I have to say, it's hard to hate you either."

"Pitying me, are you?" A vicious almost-snarl.

"Not exactly," Hermione said slowly, trying to work it out in her own head as she spoke. "But…well, I suppose I feel empathy for you."

"_Empathy?_ Hah. That's just a pretty word for pity."

"No. No, there's a difference," Hermione disagreed lightly, tension humming and buzzing in her bones as Pansy curled her lip and took another drink. "I don't look at you and think 'oh, poor Parkinson', because to be perfectly honest I don't _like_ you enough to pity you. I do, however, think about what you've been put through, and think, 'Merlin, I can't imagine how awful that must have been'." She kept her gaze steady on Pansy, her voice quiet and calm. "That's the difference."

"Well, I'll say this for you Granger – you've grown some bollocks since the last time I saw you. Don't hold back on the honesty, do you?" Pansy said, and if Hermione wasn't mistaken, there was a half-admiring tone to the staggering words. Hermione shrugged a shoulder and tipped her mouth in a slight smile, ignoring Pansy adding another measure of firewhiskey to her already doctored tea.

"I've always been honest, Pansy. You just never paid enough attention to what I said to notice. I was just the resident mudblood – why would you ever listen to anything that came out of my mouth? Why would you pay any attention to me other than to make your nasty little jabs?"

"That's true. Just like our darling Draco." Pansy hummed slightly, tapping her chin and then holding up a finger with the over-emphasis of drunkenness. "Wait, that's not right. Draco always _did_ pay more attention to you than I did at school. Of course, it all revolved around being cruel to you, but still…And now look at him – screwing you and sharing all _my_ secrets with you. I bet you think that's just _hilarious_."

Hermione gritted her teeth. "You know, unlike pretty much everyone else here, Draco actually gives a damn about you and how you're coping. I would think you'd recognise and _appreciate_ that fact, instead of trying to pick at him through me. He needs someone to talk to so that all _this_ –" Hermione waved a hand in the air, eyes sharp on Pansy. "– doesn't eat him alive. I can't imagine how hard everything must be for you right now, Pansy, but it's not easy for him either. You only have to _look_ at him to see that. And I'm not sure how getting shirty with him and being horrid to me is going to help your situation." She tried not to, but couldn't help the superior tone that slid through her voice, and Pansy noticed it too, gulping done more drink, straight from the bottle this time, choking on it.

"And there were all those times he talked about you in the Slytherin common room. Obviously your love was destined to be," Pansy started up sarcastically, ignoring everything Hermione had just said as if she'd never said it. Hermione's hands clenched into fists in her lap.

"Oh, grow up, Pansy. I don't care _what _you've been through, this is just –" Hermione began but Pansy just raised her voice and kept talking over Hermione, face twisting up with the anger that poured out of her, mimicking Draco's voice when she quoted him.

"He was _always _talking about _that mouthy mudblood bitch, Granger_, talking about that _frigid, ugly prude sticking her nose in everywhere_, and how perhaps you just needed a _good fuck_ _to put her in her place_, but how he would never be the one to do it, because _it would sully my pure blood to go near her, the filthy, buck-toothed, know-it-all_. Goyle and Crabbe used to snigger about how they should try to catch you in a corridor alone one day and take you off to an empty classroom and _play_ with you –" Pansy smirked glazedly at Hermione, the meaning of _play_ perfectly, horribly clear, and Hermione's stomach flipped sickeningly, tears springing to her eyes as Pansy continued. "And Draco used to laugh at the pair of them, and say things like; _Merlin knows why you'd want a piece of __that__ dirty mudblood. But if you do, then be smart about it and make sure you don't get yourselves bloody well caught ball-deep in the filthy bitch's cun_–"

"_Pansy!_" Draco was suddenly _there_, face thunderous with anger, hand latching around Pansy's wrist and half yanking her out of her chair, and a frightened squeak burst from the drunken girl as Hermione watched, frozen in her seat, tears in her eyes, Pansy's words – _Draco's_ words? – echoing in her head.

"Shut the _fuck_ up, Pansy. Shut your fucking _stupid_ Merlin-damned mouth." Draco was livid and hoarse and looming over Pansy, dragging her to her feet and ripping the firewhiskey bottle from her hand, slamming it on the table. "What the _fuck _were you trying to do? Were you just _trying_ to fuck things up for me? After everything I've fucking done…" He shook Pansy, shaking with anger and red spots burning high on his cheeks, eyes iced over and furious, and she whimpered with fright and clapped her hand over her mouth.

"I'm sorry, please don't," she begged in a babbling stream, the words drifting over Hermione unimportant and irrelevant, because she was too busy trying desperately to tell herself that Pansy had been lying about what Draco had said, but she _knew_ the girl hadn't been. So instead she tried to tell herself that it didn't matter anymore, and, well, it _shouldn't_ matter now, not now, but god, it _hurt_ anyway.

"Get downstairs, Pansy. _My room_. _Now_," Draco ordered through clenched teeth, shaking her hard by his white-knuckled grip on her arm, and Pansy sobbed, a drunken, wavering sound and mumbled, "Please don't…Lucius…_please…_"

And Hermione's head jerked up, and Draco dropped Pansy's arm as though it was white-hot and flinched back like he'd been lashed, and Pansy's eyes focused with recognition on him and she went pale and started shaking, and they all stared at each other in utter horror.

"I'm not – I'm not…" Draco began in a thick, choked voice. "I'm not…" His grey eyes were wide and horrified, and Pansy dropped her eyes from his, buried her face in her hands and started crying in earnest. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," came brokenly from between her fingers.

"I'm…I'm not _him_. I'm _Draco_…" he got out, and then, "P-Pansy?" he said her name, soft and stumbling and desperately hurt, reaching out, fingers brushing tentatively over Pansy's elbow as Hermione watched as if she was frozen in place, speechless, heart bloody _pounding_ in her chest. Horror and revulsion were swirling around in her stomach, and bile rose sour and harsh in her throat. The Slytherin girl shrank back from Draco, and Hermione swallowed hard around the lump in her throat and pushed her chair back, stood up stiffly, feeling like a marionette.

"I'm sorry, Draco. I'm sorry. I know you're not…you're not him…" Pansy was saying through her tears, but when Draco stepped towards her, Pansy stumbled back and whimpered and trembled. He stopped and stood staring at her, face anguished, and Hermione gritted her teeth and forced herself to keep it together. Put an arm around Pansy's shoulders.

"Come on, then, Pansy. Come on, it's all right. Let's go downstairs. I'll get you a sleeping potion or something. It's all right," Hermione said, a litany of meaningless, reassuring phrases, stroking a hand over Pansy's straggling hair. The girl _let_ Hermione hold her, for a wonder – she even huddled slightly into Hermione's side, still weeping, and apologising to Draco through her tears. "Come on," Hermione said and looked up at Draco before she led Pansy away. He stood there helplessly, his desperate gratitude to Hermione all tangled up with horror and revulsion and helplessness, and Hermione didn't know what to say. What to do. She couldn't even bring herself to smile reassuringly at him – it didn't seem right to smile at all, given what had just happened.

She bit her lip and led Pansy out of the kitchen, past a confused and concerned looking Harry and Ron, who had no doubt heard Draco's yelling and come to see what was going on. _Later,_ she mouthed fiercely at them, as they opened their mouths to ask what on earth was going on, and then quickly guided Pansy down the cellar steps, feeling nearly as shaky as the Slytherin girl was. Hermione took her through to Draco's room – Pansy's now, really – and sat her on the edge of the bed. Helped her lie down beneath the blankets and sat down beside her as Pansy curled up into the foetal position, turned toward Hermione, face hidden by her hair.

"I'm so _drunk_," Pansy sobbed after a moment, her hand snapping out from under the covers and clutching onto Hermione's. Hermione stiffened and then made herself squeeze Pansy's hand in some sort of feeble comfort. She used her other hand to rub the girl's back soothingly through the blankets, her chest wrenched tight and her throat all clogged and aching with emotion.

"Yes, you are rather," she agreed quietly, trying to keep the judgement and anger and resentment out of her voice.

"He just looked so much like him…sounded so much like him…for a moment I thought…" Pansy mumbled wretchedly, sobs hiccuping out of her. "Merlin…I didn't mean to…" Thank god, the girl's voice trailed off to a whisper that died to nothing, and a few seconds later, she heaved the deep, hitching breath of someone who was finally dead to the world. Hermione just sat there by Pansy's sleeping form, shell-shocked, stunned, a wellspring of tears inside her that she kept choked down. If she started crying she'd fall apart, and she couldn't do that. She thought about going back upstairs, but the thought of facing Draco…what could she say? She didn't know what to do, couldn't decide. Didn't know. Couldn't decide. So in the end she just sat there, staring at the wall, hands knotted up in her lap and nails digging red crescents into her palms.

_**# # #**_

"What the hell is going on?" Potter demanded as soon as he stepped through the door into the kitchen. Before Draco even had a chance to snap out of the horrified revulsion he was looping through, Weasley followed up. "Yeah, what the fuck'd you do to Parkinson? Not that I'm complaining…but Merlin's balls, she was a right mess." Weasley made a face. "_And_ clinging on to Hermione; something is _not_ right with that picture."

Draco stared blankly at the two Gryffindors. Wetted his lips, and then words came out, hoarse and vague. "Pansy was…Pansy was drunk and baiting Hermione. Saying…saying shit. I told her – told her to shut her fucking mouth. To go down to my room. Grabbed her arm." He blinked at the two boys. "And – and she thought I was my father," he finished, horror-filled and dazed, and Weasley and Potter stared at him in confusion, brows furrowed identically. They had no idea _why_ that was cause for such horror, Draco realised belatedly, the gears in his mind still grinding over too slowly.

"Your father?" Potter asked bewilderedly, giving Draco a suspicious narrowed-eye glare, and without even thinking about whether he should say it or not, Draco nodded dully and said, "He – he raped her."

There was a deathly silence that stretched on and on, as Potter and Weasley processed that. Draco realised too late that he shouldn't have said anything, but he was too fogged to care, really. He saw sympathy in Potter's eyes, glinting behind the glasses, and it was uncomfortable to recognise it there, but again…he didn't really care that much. Pansy had thought he was his father. For a moment, she had thought… He felt _sick_.

"Right then. Ah…right. Harry, you get the glasses, I'll get a fresh bottle of firewhiskey," Weasley said in the end, and Draco focused on the other boy's words sluggishly.

"F-firewhiskey?" he asked, dazed and stupid, and the redhead nodded at him, eyes echoing the same sympathy as Potter's, and when Draco saw that, suddenly everything just felt _surreal_.

"Yeah," Weasley said tightly, and then clapped Draco on the shoulder, a gesture of solidarity that left Draco feeling as though the world had been tipped upside-down and shaken hard. "After…_that_, I think we _all_ need a bloody drink, Malfoy."

And Potter grabbed glasses, and Draco traipsed after them through the dining room, Weasley lifting a bottle of firewhiskey from the liquor cabinet and leading them out to the front deck. The movie was still playing in the lounge, loud and intrusive, but the sound cut off when the front door swung shut behind them. The air was cool, like a slap in the face, and it helped clear the cobwebs out of Draco's mind as he sank into one of the battered old armchairs they kept on the covered deck. Weasley pressed a glass half-full of firewhiskey into his hand, and he mumbled his thanks, drank automatically. It scorched through him, welcome and warm, setting a familiar fire burning in his belly.

"So," Weasley said at last. "Your father…?"

Draco stared into the depths of his glass and swilled it all down at once. "Yeah. I probably I shouldn't have told you that," he said when he was able to speak again, throat raw and firewhiskey licking hot through his veins, suffusing him.

"Well you did. So you may as well give," Weasley pointed out, and leaned over to Draco, topping up his empty glass with another couple of fingers of firewhiskey.

"Just what I said. My father–" He hesitated for a second; the word was so damned hard to say. "–raped, Pansy. Was trying to use her to fucking beget another heir to the Malfoy name, seeing as he disinherited me and all. So when she got a chance to contact the Order and get away, she took it." He was as brief and dispassionate as possible – no detail about the pregnancy and subsequent abortion, no emotion communicated bar bitterness; just the bare, sparse facts. And even so, Potter and Weasley visibly blanched.

"That's fucking _rough_, mate," Weasley said with a clumsy attempt at sympathy, at the same time as Potter said, "_Christ_, Malfoy, that's bloody horrible."

Draco stared into the firewhiskey as he swirled the liquid around and around in the glass, and nodded slightly.

"I've got Darth Vader for a father," he observed with bitter humour, the Muggle movies still fresh in his head, and Potter chuckled, somehow finding in humour in the whole bloody thing. Lucky for Potter – Draco sure fucking didn't.

"What, so that makes you Luke Skywalker?" Potter asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Fuck, no." Draco played along with the Golden Boy half-heartedly, feeling the firewhiskey tingling at his fingertips and toes, and making his tongue feel a tiny bit thick in his mouth. It was bloody potent stuff. He grinned weakly. "If I'm anyone in those movies, then I'm Han Solo."

"_Sure_ you are, Malfoy. If you've got Darth Vader for a father, then that makes you Luke. Don't know why you'd protest that anyway," Potter said, sipping cautiously at his firewhiskey and making a face at the taste.

"He's a whiny fucker," Draco said, jabbing a finger at Potter, and gulping down a mouthful of firewhiskey, and Potter's lips twitched with amusement.

"And you aren't, Malfoy?"

"Merlin's balls. _Malfoy_, the hero of the piece? That's just bloody _wrong_, Harry," Weasley said without malice, smirking faintly.

"I'm not bloody whiny, and I'm sure as fuck not the hero. Merlin, forget about the Darth Vader comparison, _please_; you two are like fucking children," Draco said, half-snapping, half-amused, and completely set off balance by how friendly the two Gryffindors were being to him.

Potter's smile vanished, and his demeanour took on a serious air, mouth turning down slightly. "So, you went in and yelled at Pansy for being a, ah, bitch, and she…freaked out and thought you were your father…?"

"Essentially, yes." Draco felt brittle just thinking about it. About being compared to his father, and found so similar that he was actually mistaken for him. _Please don't…Lucius…please…_ Pansy had pleaded in a terrified little voice, and Draco had felt like he was going to vomit, like he was going to –

"Well, I s'pose there are some similarities between you and your father," Weasley said, cocking his head to one side and giving Draco an assessing stare, and Draco scowled murderously, a bolt of reflexive loathing shooting through him at the thought of being seen as like his father. "If, ah, the person were drunk, anyway," Weasley quickly amended, seeing Draco's expression. "You said she was drunk, right?"

"Yes, she was. Fall-down, throw-up drunk; fucking blitzed off her nut," Draco confirmed with carefully constructed casualness, and drained his drink, holding his glass out for a refill. Merlin it was good to drink again.

"Speaking of blitzed, you best slow down, Malfoy," Potter cut in, and Weasley jerked the bottle up before more than a splash had hit the bottom of Draco's glass. "We don't need to be getting you shitfaced, either, right now," Potter finished, and Draco frowned but jerked off a reluctant nod. "Probably right, Potter."

"So," Potter said a good five minutes of silence later. "What was it that Pansy said that got you so furious, Malfoy? We could hear you in the lounge, over the movie – and Dean and Seamus have it up _loud_."

Draco gnawed on his lip for a moment, distracted by the amusing and unexpected fact that, when it came right down to it, Potter and Weasley were right bloody gossips, wanting to know all the juicy details. But his trace of a smile faded when he thought about just _what _Pansy had been saying. In the shock of what had happened _after_ that, he'd forgotten about what she'd actually said. She'd told Hermione just a few of the horrible, sickening things he used to say about Hermione – amongst other people. Pansy had said them in a slurring crow of triumph, as if in hurting Hermione – hurting Draco – she was somehow making things better for herself. But she hadn't.

Draco looked Potter and Weasley in the eyes, one after the other, feeling a sense of shame wash over him; an alien feeling in regards to what _they_ thought of him. It had never really bothered him what they'd thought before. And now it did.

"Top me up?" he asked Weasley, and Potter gave him a funny look.

"That bad, huh, Malfoy?" the bespectacled boy asked uneasily as Weasley sloshed a good measure of drink into the glass, and Draco nodded.

"Yeah. That bad." He took a fortifying mouthful of firewhiskey, heaved a breath, and braced himself to say it with blunt matter-of-factness. The truth, unadulterated – and he couldn't help thinking what _Hermione _thought about the words, and if Pansy had broken something precious between them, and how many blows could they take before it all just fell apart and died? He took another sip and swallowed. Opened his mouth.

"Pansy was telling Hermione some of the things I used to say about Hermione, when we were back at school."

"Oh…" Potter said, and tension crackled in the air. Draco soldiered on.

"I was an arsehole. As you already know. I… detested her when I thought of her at all, and I used to say some rather fucking awful, despicable things about her. And Pansy just repeated a handful of the worst of them back to Hermione." Draco groaned quietly to himself, feeling nauseous. _Scared_. What if Hermione decided that this was what tipped the balance? What if this was what finally made her loathe him? He had told her so many horrible things about himself – when would the weight of it all grow heavy enough to break what they had? To smash her feelings for him to bloody sickened smithereens?

"I'm not going to ask what, exactly Pansy – _you_ – said. I can…imagine. Remember," Potter said with a measured calm, but there was tight anger beneath the surface, aimed at Draco – and Draco didn't blame the other boy for it. He was pretty fucking angry at himself as it was.

"I kinda think I'd like to know," Weasley said from out of nowhere, anger fizzing under the surface of his words too, and bleeding through to the top, and Draco bit his lip hard, swore to himself inwardly. He should've known he wouldn't get off the hook that easy.

"Ron…" Potter protested half-heartedly, and Weasley shook his head hard. "No, Harry, I want to fucking know. And if he could say them in the first place, he can bloody well bring himself to repeat them now."

"Shit…Ron…" Potter rubbed a hand over his eyes beneath his glasses, knocking them all askew, and Draco leaned back in his chair and sighed.

"No. It's fine, Weasley's got a fucking point. I walked into the kitchen to hear Pansy telling Hermione about one of the many times Crabbe and Goyle joked about catching Hermione in the corridors and raping her –" Potter went pale and Weasley went red, and Draco felt like he wanted to throw up the firewhiskey he'd just downed. "– and I laughed and told them to…" He nearly choked on the words, but forced them out, voice flat and dull as he cursed himself for ever saying them. "I told them that I didn't know why they'd want to rape a dirty mud-blood, but to make sure if they did it, they were smart about it, and didn't get themselves caught ball-deep in the filthy bitch's cunt. I –"

Before Draco could say another word, Weasley lunged forward and hit him. Hard.

Draco stifled any reaction bar a pained grunt as his nose erupted into a ball of hot pain on his face, and started trickling blood. He couldn't blame Weasley, couldn't fight back, he told himself, choking on the pain and the instinctive need to hit back, to lash out in return. He couldn't. He'd felt like doing the same damned thing to Pansy for just repeating the words; he couldn't blame Weasley for smacking him one. His firewhiskey had mostly sloshed onto his pants leg, but there was some left in the bottom of the glass and he thew it back, hissing. He looked over at Weasley, mopping at his nose gingerly with his sleeve and wincing, tears in his eyes from the pain. Weasley was sitting there expectantly, _waiting_ for Draco to react.

"Fair – fair enough," Draco said as he set his glass down on the crate by his armchair and tipped his head back, pinched the bridge of his nose to stop the blood flowing. It ran down the back of his throat instead, thick and metallic and he gagged on it, but kept his firewhiskey down.

"You're not gonna hit Ron…?" Potter asked cautiously, and Draco shook his head.

"No. Deserve more than a bloody punch in the nose for the things I've said," Draco said dismissive and nasal, shrugging, and squinting against the pain at Potter.

"Oh, don't fucking tempt me, Malfoy," Weasley snapped. "I will _gladly_ beat the shit out of you for everything you've said and done, if you'd like me to."

"I think I'll pass on that," Draco gritted out, past the blood that trickled down his throat, still feeling an odd sense of shame that Potter and Weasley had heard what he'd said. There was a slosh of liquid and with his head still mostly tilted back Draco looked awkwardly over to see Weasley refill Draco's empty glass.

"Thanks," he muttered, confused, and Weasley inclined his head.

"Need an _episkey_?" he offered a moment later, and Draco was too shocked by the genial offer to answer right away, looking for the catch in the offer and not finding one. Weasley repeated himself, and Draco shook his head.

"Thanks, Weasley, but no. The bleeding's mostly stopped. It'll be fine."

"Think Hermione'll be less likely to hurt you if she can see you're already injured?" Potter said with a note of dry humour, and Draco grinned lopsided, nose still a lump of molten pain on his face, throbbing in time to his pulse.

"I doubt it," he said, for some ridiculous reason that he didn't examine too closely, extremely glad that Potter and Weasley didn't hate him for what he'd said in the past. "But it's worth a try."

"Rather you than me, mate. Hermione's fucking _vicious _when she's pissed," Weasley said, half-gloating, a wicked grin on his face, and Draco winced, sipped at his firewhiskey.

"She is, isn't she?" he mused aloud with faint affection, dabbing at his nose with his blood-blotched sleeve, and then there was mostly just silence as the three drank together in some odd sort of mute companionship.

_**# # #**_

Draco went upstairs half an hour later, just a little bit tipsy and still in a rather unpleasant amount of pain, looking for Hermione but half-hoping he didn't find her. She was sitting on her bed with a book open on her lap, and she looked up sharply when he walked in, her eyes red and her face blotchy. He smiled at her tightly, an uncertain expression, not sure what to say or do, or whether she even wanted to see him right now. But concern crossed her face, chasing away the wariness that had shuttered her eyes and tightened her mouth.

"Your face! Merlin, Draco, what happened?" she cried, scrambling off the bed and snatching up her wand from the bookshelf. "Let me heal it."

"Weasley happened," Draco said calmly, holding up his hand and waving away her wand. He'd washed his face, but the bruising was spectacular. "And no, leave it. I deserved it."

Hermione's hand, reaching out to stroke his cheek, pulled back. Her mouth pursed and the wariness returned. "Oh," she said in a small voice, the beginnings of understanding.

"Yeah," Draco said, feeling nervous and awkward, and damnit, how was that Hermione could inspire similar levels of terror in him that Voldemort did – albeit for different reasons. He licked his lips and shrugged. "It was a few years too late, really, but I can't blame Weasley for the sentiment."

"You talked to Harry and Ron," she said flatly, and Draco nodded, wondering suddenly if she would be annoyed that he had.

"You actually talked about _important things_ with _Harry_ and _Ron?_" There was a definite note of disbelief and Draco huffed out a short sigh, wishing she'd just say what she meant. "Yes, Hermione, I did," he said with a trace of impatience. "Should I not have?"

"No! No, that's wonderful!" she cried, and flung her arms around him, hugging him tight and hard. Not expecting it, he staggered back, arms curling around her automatically, and her body was warm and solid and heavy against his, her hair smelt like vanilla. He smiled into her hair.

"Is it?" he asked dryly and she pulled back a little, tipping her face up to him, arms slipping up around his neck, wariness forgotten again, for now. "Yes," she told him firmly, smiling. "It is. Merlin, Draco, it wasn't that long ago that you couldn't stand the sight of each other, and now you're actually…confiding in them."

"Well, I wouldn't say that," he hedged, not really comfortable with the concept of _confiding_ in Potter and Weasley and refusing to entertain the notion that he might have been. "They asked what the hell had happened that had upset Pansy, I told them, and they expressed some obligatory sympathies over a few glasses of alcohol on the deck. Only a few," he added when her dark brows scrunched together in a little frown of disapproval. "Anyway, I'd hardly call that _confiding_."

"So," she asked him, returning her wand to the top of the bookshelf and sinking back onto the bed, folding her legs up under her tailor-fashion. "Why exactly did Ron hit you then, if there was all this _sympathising_ going on?"

Draco worried at his lower lip and sat uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, leaving a little space between him and Hermione, feeling his heartbeat quicken and his body hum with nervous tension. "Because after I told them why Pansy was upset, I told them why I'd gotten so angry with her. What she said to you." He looked down at the floor. "What I said about you, years ago." It felt like he was trying to wriggle out of it, adding that _years ago_ disclaimer, but it _had been_ years ago – that was the truth. But it still felt…dishonest. He had said fucking _awful_ things about Hermione, things that made him feel sick to his stomach with shame and revulsion now, and he bloody well deserved to take the consequences for it.

Merlin, Hermione was corrupting him – turning him into some sort of noble Gryffindor martyr type, eager to throw himself on his sword.

Hermione swallowed hard and took a sharp breath, staring with intent fascination at her hands in her lap. "I see," was all she said, very quietly. "So Pansy was telling the truth, then?" she asked a moment later, as though the question had been dragged out of her against her will or better judgement, and Draco nodded, filled with that sick shame until it spilled out of him, overflowing and drenching the air with it.

"Yes. The things I heard her say were things I have said, or near enough. And more – I said more than just those." It was like he was confessing; shriving himself, and the words tumbled out, rushed and small. "I said things that were _worse _than that. Laughed about things that…Merlin, I can't _tell_ you, because…because in a way it's worse somehow than telling you about Greyback and the kids…because it's about _you_." He stared at her, anguished. "I don't know how much of what I said was to impress the other Slytherins, and how much I really, truly believed, but does that really matter? I believed enough of it. I said…and I don't even know if I would have really cared if Crabbe and –"

"_Don't!_" Hermione snapped, the word whipping out of her, disgust and revulsion in every line of her body. "I don't want to know _that_." She shook her head, eyes narrowed on him. "I _really_ don't need to hear that. _Any of it_ – but especially not _that_. How do you think it's going to _help_, Draco, to tell me what I already know? What I try to accept and forget about? How is that going to _help?_" She was biting the words out with a low, contained fury, and Draco couldn't' hold her gaze.

"It's all true though," he said at last, lamely, not even sure himself why he had spilled it out, why he wanted to confess to her; but feeling now like the impulsive decision to do so had been a definite mistake.

"It's in the past, and that's where it should stay." The venom in her voice shocked him, and his eyes slid to hers unobtrusively, stealing a glimpse of wet, wavering firewhiskey brown; wounded and furious. She was lashing out from defensive-anger, and a bit of hurt-anger, but there was no judgement in her eyes. No contempt.

"But what I said…I…" It wasn't that Draco _wanted_ her to be angry, it just _didn't make any sense_ that she wasn't, and it left him adrift, not knowing what the hell to do. She was obviously hurt, but bottling it all up, and Draco was at a complete and utter loss as to what the appropriate approach was. He'd expected to be abjectly apologising, not feeling his way in the dark. He flicked a quick glance at her, all huddled up with her knees to her chest and her arms curled around her legs.

"I don't believe that it being in the past means it doesn't hurt you," he said, wondering if he was sabotaging himself by pushing the issue, but he didn't want to leave things like this, where what had happened could drive a silent wedge between them over time. If there was going to be a problem, he wanted it out in the open, now, so he could deal with it.

"Oh, it does," she said tightly. "But – and this is going to sound horrid – but, Draco, after the war is over there _are_ going to be people who come up to me and ask how I can be with you, after what you've done. They're going to be the parents of children you – you gave to Greyback. Or…" she trailed off, looking ill and avoiding Draco's eyes, leaving the rest unspoken. "So I need to be able to…learn to handle the truth of what you've said or done in the past, without it wrenching me apart at the seams. And I may as well start with this." She was brittle and hard-edged; a shell over herself, and Draco felt a grinding hurt bore into him, because she shouldn't have to do that.

"Yes. It does sound horrid." On several levels, in fact – not only did it remind Draco of what he'd done far too clearly, but it was also just such a…depressingly pragmatic approach for Hermione to take. She shouldn't have to live like that, with people constantly reminding her of the horrible things the person she was with had done during the war. Draco knew that if he had any damn bollocks whatsoever he'd leave her again, and make it clean and final this time, but he still didn't have the willpower. He wondered why _she_ bothered, why _she _didn't just end it, when there were all these things stacking up against her happiness. He asked her that haltingly, half-afraid of what her answer would be, and she gave him a raw, bloodshot stare.

"We can't help who we love, Draco," Hermione said, shrinking down into herself, and an ache radiated out from his chest, seeing her like that, so hurt. Draco edged along the bed, and tentatively put his arm around her back, and she leant into him hard, a sigh puffing from her lips, her head snugging against his chest, arms encircling his waist. Clinging to him like she was afraid he'd disappear, speaking with quiet, drifting intonations. "Love isn't _logical_, or even our _choice_." There was a wry, sad humour to her words, and she shrugged helplessly, jostling them both. "Love chooses us."

She took a deep, tremulous breath, holding onto him tight enough for it to be uncomfortable, half-squeezing the life out of him, and he absently smoothed his hand through her hair, teasing out knots and snags. "I didn't want to be attracted to you," she told him quietly. "Didn't want to _want_ you, didn't want to like you, and certainly didn't want to _love _you. Merlin, I didn't choose any of it, it just _happened_. And now we fit together so well somehow, and I can't imagine having _this_ with anyone else. It wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't be _you_. And I want _you_, and I don't _care_ about what other people think, and I can't afford to dwell on the past…"

"And Merlin knows what our fucking future is," Draco threw in, and then pressed his lips to the top of her head, breathed in the scent of her shampoo.

"But we've got _now_," she said, for once not arguing about the future, twisting so her face was buried against his chest, hands seizing fistfuls of his shirt.

"Is it worth it?" he asked her, cursing his irrational need to ask the question when he already knew her answer, but unable to deny the urge. He _needed_ to hear her say it aloud, simple and clear. Needed to know that whatever might happen, at some point, it had been _real_; it had been _truth_.

"Very worth it," Hermione said, pure surety in her tone, pushing herself up and over so that she straddled his lap and looked down at him, and he could see the glow in her eyes, and the faint, wobbly smile on her lips. And then her hands slipped behind Draco's neck, drawing him closer, and her mouth was slanting over his, warm and damp and sweet. He felt relief and arousal melt through his bones, and he met her kiss hungrily, needily, twisting them around, sinking onto the bed so that she lay beneath him. Her hair tangled out around her like a dark halo, her legs hooking up around his hips, surging up against him, grinding up into his already hardening cock, little moans slipping and sliding out of her mouth and into his as they kissed, and Merlin, Draco forgot everything but her.

_**# # #**_

Hermione rocked her pelvis up against the hot bulge of Draco's cock, whimpering, hands dragging through his hair as he licked and nibbled at her throat. It was amazing, what they did together; her clumsy, groping experiences with Viktor Krum were nothing like what Draco made her feel. They were on that knife edge between comfortable familiarity and alien exploration; still finding previously undiscovered places and techniques that made each other moan and squirm and beg for more, but comfortable enough to be perfectly confident in the way they touched each other. It was perfection and she soaked it up, the flesh between her thighs slick and throbbing, womb clenching and heat prickling everywhere over her skin.

Draco was on his elbows above her, the weight of him just heavy enough to press her into the bed without crushing her, and his tongue slicked along the underside of her jaw from chin to ear, and goosebumps sprang up on her arms, shivers running deliciously down her spine. His cock jutted out against his trousers, the shaft of it right over her clit, and Hermione's breath came in little jagged gasps as she rocked up against him, ankles hooked together behind his hips, fingers pulling and dragging and combing through his hair and clawing lightly down over his shoulders. It was oddly gentle and urgent at once, and she wanted _more_.

She pulled at his hair, his shoulders, nuzzled at his temple, until he realised what she wanted and lifted his face from her throat. His fringe fell forward and tickled her forehead, and his grey eyes were molten, luminous. She sought his smirking mouth, her eyes sliding shut as his tongue slipped between her parted lips and teased at her own, sending a jot of arousal straight through her down to her aching clit, making her flesh twitch and wetness damp her knickers. She wanted to tear her clothes off and latch herself to him, feel the smooth, hard planes of his chest, the raised, swirling scars on his abdomen, the wiry, corded feel of the muscles in his arms, and – she slipped her hand down between their bodies and rubbed him firmly through his trousers – and the hard, thick length of his cock, guiding it into her…

Her lips trembled against his and her toes curled, and she whimpered as his mouth moved velvety and tantalising on hers, her hands seeking beneath his shirt, sliding over the smooth, warm skin of his back. There was something hanging in the air between them, something fragile and tenderly greedy. She knew she was trying to close over the fresh wounds Pansy had opened, mend them with her lips and tongue and searching hands, and she thought Draco was trying to do the same. Reassure each other that it hadn't damaged anything irreparably; that they loved each other, and years-old words weren't going to taint that, no matter how hurtful they'd been.

Draco's fingertips grazed along her temple, his lips pulling from hers, planting wet, open-mouthed kisses on the corner of her mouth, her jaw, her throat, and then he reached her shirt and frowned at it. "That's going to have to come off," he said, a glint in his eyes, a smirk on those kiss-swollen lips. Hermione smiled lazily, undulating beneath him and revelling in his sharp, strangled intake of breath, the twitch of his fingers at her temple, the involuntary jerk of his hips as he ground his cock against the pressure she provided.

"Yours too," she murmured, tugging at the back of his shirt. Because of his hand there could probably never be any seamless, easy and teasing stripping off of each other's clothes, one thing at a time. It broke up the moments, lessened the heavy, hot burn of want between them, and worse, it made both of them think about Draco's injury and how it had happened. They'd never talked about the way it affected their sex, but they didn't have to – it was painfully obvious. Hermione hadn't ever known any different than how they did it though, and she wasn't sure if Draco had or not and carefully had avoided asking him, telling herself that it wasn't important. At any rate, she thought, murmuring a happy sound as his hand slid lightly over her stomach, they had adjusted rather well.

They struggled to sit up, all tangled together, Hermione, clinging to Draco and not making it any easier. He hefted her over to the side of the bed, swinging his legs over the edge and she ended up in his lap and burying her face against his chest, her hands sliding lightly up and down his sides under his shirt, and his hand coming up to cup the back of her head. His maimed arm was around her waist, and she could _feel_ the lack of a hand where one should be, and that space on her back where there should be an elegant, long-fingered hand felt so _empty_. Her heart panged and twinged for him, and more selfishly, for herself and for them, when they were like _this_.

She craned her neck up and kissed his chin, his stubble rasping on her lips, and saw a quick flash of a smile quirk his mouth. "I love you," she said very soft and quick and kissed his chin again, and then her fingers went to the buttons on his shirt, undoing them hurriedly. Draco hesitated, and then he said the words back to her, his mouth to her ear, lips whispering and breath hot against her skin. She could feel his eyes on her as she tugged at his unbuttoned shirt, shoved it off his shoulders and dragged the sleeves down his arms, feeling impatient and all tied in aching, wanting knots that she needed him to tease undone for her.

"What?"

"You're like a child unwrapping their Christmas present," Draco said with amusement, as Hermione ripped her own top swiftly off over her head and reached behind her to unhook her bra. She paused and grinned at him even as she felt her cheeks heat slightly.

"Unwrapping yours for you, too," she said boldly as her bra fell away, and he chuckled, fingertips dragging down the curve of one breast almost reverently.

"Merlin, you're fucking gorgeous," he said, rolling her nipple lazily between his finger and thumb, and Hermione's insides went all twisty and melting, her thighs tensed, and her clit was screaming for the stroke of his fingers or rough-wet lap of his tongue. She was _drunk_ on wanting him as he bowed his head to her breast, leaning her back over his maimed arm and sucking her nipple into the wet, soft heat of his mouth. She lost her thoughts somewhere in the waves of arousal that rolled through her, tugging at her insides and making her outsides hot and damp and flushed. Draco was laving her nipples, and she was making the greedy, desperate sounds he always wrung out of her, that were so unlike her, so alien to how Hermione usually thought of herself. She was a squirming, wanting creature on the bed, nipples pebbled and knickers sopping with slick wetness, and there was something so delectably freeing about stopping thinking, and just _feeling_.

It didn't take long before Draco was trying to pop her jeans button open, and then she was splayed on the bed with her legs spread wide, his head nestled between her thighs and his tongue darting out and sending lashes of burning, building pleasure through her, making her every muscle quiver and her eyes screw shut, fingers grab up fistfuls of the bedcovers. But he stopped before she came, stopped just short of her reaching her orgasm, and she half-sobbed, panting and shoving at his shoulders, demanding he keep going, and he smirked at her and told her '_no'._ And then it seemed like before Hermione even knew what was going on, she was kneeling naked on the floor in front of him, with his hand in her hair.

"Please?" he said with a half-smile, and she melted at the unexpected sweetness of the word. Quickly, smiling, she divested him of his trousers and boxers and wrapped her mouth around his cock; still such a foreign, thrilling experience. Peeking up at him and watching his face as she lapped and sucked, and twisted her hand slowly up and down in time with her mouth, making his hand spasm around a handful of her hair.

Hermione didn't mind so much that he'd stopped her short of the brink then, seeing his face, and besides, she knew he'd make up for it. Oh god yes, she knew that very well. So she worked at his cock, experimenting, playing, and teasing him mercilessly. She had discovered that Draco's expression was wholly unguarded while he was in her mouth; right now his head was thrown back and eyes slitted, his teeth indenting his lower lip hard, and his neck corded, a deep little furrow slashing between his dark brows. Every so often he sucked in a sharp breath, or let out a short, quiet whimper, or the occasional half-intelligible stream of _'oh fucking Merlin…shit, Hermione…so good…don't – don't stop' _that made her inwardly grin with an absurd pride.

And then he lifted her to her feet and directed her back to the bed, gently pushed her down and settled besides her, his fingers skilfully, dexterously teasing and titillating her, torturing her into a wash of _too-much-but-not-enough_ sensation that made her wriggle and mewl and buck under his touch. A rogue part of Hermione's brain thought about the mood that filled the room that swamped them and made everything slower, gentler, and more aware of proving to each other that nothing mattered but them and what they felt for each other now. It was nice. It was what she needed. Draco rolled between her legs, the two of them fitting together like puzzle pieces, him laying a kiss like a brand on her shoulder.

Hermione's thoughts scattered altogether and she focused on the exquisite feel of Draco's cock sliding maddeningly slow into her pussy, stretching her, filling her, making her heels drive into the bed as her body bowed up, and her arms hooked around his neck, pulling him hard against her. He rested on his maimed arm and slipped his left hand under her bum, cupping one bum cheek and using it like a handle to hold her against him as he started to thrust, and Hermione squirmed beneath him, driven to unbearable sensitivity, and yet still, perversely, wanting more. She came with him buried inside her, spasming around him, her hands clutching at his shoulders and her back arching off the bed, breathless cries falling from her mouth. And he kept thrusting slowly and deep as she dug her nails into his shoulders and trembled against him, his face nestled in the crook of her neck, laying light clumsy kisses on her skin, murmuring filthy sweet nothings in her ear.

Afterwards, they lay together beneath tangled sheets with her head pillowed on his chest, and his arms around her. Hermione could hear his heart still thundering in his chest beneath her ear from the exertion, and as for herself, she felt limp and wobbly, sweat dewing her pinked skin, his cum trickling out of her, making a damp sticky patch on the bed. He sighed and his chest rose and fell, his arms tightened around her.

"So," he began, a hint of nervousness clear in the tight cautiousness of his voice. "Are we…okay?"

She smoothed her hand over his chest. "Yes. I think so," she said lightly, hand continuing its sweep, down over the lean plane of his abdomen, index finger circling his bellybutton lightly. He snorted and shoved her hand away, nearly giggling, and Hermione grinned.

"Ticklish?" she teased, tracing her finger back around his bellybutton and he swatted at her hand again. "Hermione…" he said her name, a warning on his lips. "You're far more ticklish than I am." She twisted her head and glanced up at him, his eyebrow raised warningly and a tolerant smile twitching at his lips. She slapped his stomach lightly instead, and sent her hand further down, to the crux of his thighs where his cock lay, flaccid now, and she stroked the back of a finger over the soft, velvety flesh. It was no less intriguing when limp than when hard, Hermione had decided, and now she let her hand rest over it, kneading occasionally, and heard an ever so slightly irritated rumble vibrate through Draco's chest.

"Don't start something that you can't finish, Hermione," he mumbled, sounding too sleepy and lazy to bother carrying out the threat, his hand sliding up and down her side, warm and soothing in counterpoint to his words. She hummed contentedly to herself, pulling her hand back up to his stomach and nuzzling into him, listening to his heartbeat.

"Yes," she repeated. "We're okay." And she believed it, too, and he must have heard that belief in her voice, because a breath of relief escaped him, chest sinking beneath her ear and the fingers on his only hand digging into her side as he hugged her closer.

"Good. That's very…good," Draco said drowsily, lifting his head to kiss the top of hers and then dropping it back to the pillows, and tucking the blankets closer around them both. They subsided into silence, all cocooned together, wrapped up in each other, and Hermione dozed for a while, and thankfully, for once she didn't remember her dreams.

_**# # #**_

A couple of hours after Draco had come up to Hermione's room, she stirred in his arms, stretching and rousing herself, and startling him out of the doze he was only just beginning to sink into. She made a little mewling, groaning sound as she stretched her arms out and rolled off him, arching her back and making a starfish shape under the covers next to him, taking up most of the single bed and nearly forcing him off onto the floor. He rolled onto his side and hooked the blanket down with one finger, eyes on the dusky pink of her nipples as she bowed her back, pushing her chest up into the air. She looked over at him sleepily with heavy-lidded eyes, the cheek she'd had pressed against his chest all flushed and the other pale, her hair in snarled waves that fluffed around her face.

"Pervert," she mumbled with a smile, and he circled a nipple with one finger. "Oh, definitely," he said, and tweaked her nipple lightly, making her squeak and drag the covers up over her chest, hiding her breasts away from him. A brief scuffle ensued, that turned into something more…

"I've been thinking…" Draco said a while later, as she sat up, carefully pulling her fingers through her hair to tease out the tangles while he lay back and watched, head pillowed on his arm. "Maybe it would be better for Pansy to be somewhere other than…here."

She gave him a sharp glance, questioning. "Look, I know things went…awkwardly…between you two today. But you're still the only person she's got who can support her." She frowned. "It would probably help if you stopped supplying her with alcohol."

He ducked his eyes away at that – not surprised that Hermione had figured out it was him who was supplying Pansy. Who else in this house would do that for Pansy? But the disapproval in her tone stung a little, especially because in the wake of today's events he knew that Hermione was right, and Pansy's drinking wasn't helping the situation. And _that _was an understatement.

At first Draco had thought that it would unfair to deny Pansy one of her only comforts, and seeing how she was, how she felt, hearing about her nightmares that the alcohol kept at bay…it had seemed cruel to refuse her. But he never, ever wanted a repeat of what had happened today. What she had said to Hermione in her drunken anger. The way she had looked at Draco and thought that he was his…father. He tightened his mouth – something had to change. He wasn't helping her. Whatever support he could give Pansy obviously wasn't enough, or of the sort that she needed. Draco supposed he just wasn't very good at being supportive, and he wasn't surprised by that; it wasn't like he'd had a lot of practice at it.

"I realise that now, Hermione," he said crisply, a hint of defensive-anger seeping through as he remembered what his quiet supplying of firewhiskey to the Slytherin girl had done. _Please don't…Lucius…please… _The words echoed in his head and he flinched from them, revulsion snaking through him and coiling hot and sick in his belly.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to sound so…"

"That's all right," he said and tried to mean it, tried not to think about the fear on Pansy's face, and the shame and embarrassment that had washed over it when she'd realised what she'd said, who she'd thought Draco was. Merlin, he _never_ wanted that to happen again. He drifted his hand down Hermione's back, over the smooth creamy skin, and she shivered a little at the sensation, paused in detangling her hair and smiled at him, soft and apologetic.

"So, if you don't want Pansy to stay here…and after today, I can understand that, I suppose because, well… But where would she go?"

"To the safehouse where my mother is." He'd thought about it while Hermione slept peacefully on him, and while it seemed like the last thing you'd want to do, to send Pansy to the place where the wife of her rapist was, it also made sense in a strange sort of way.

"But your _mother…? Really?_" Hermione asked, clearly thinking that sending Pansy to be around Lucius' wife wasn't a good idea, and Draco nodded, fingers still tracing up and down the bumps of Hermione's spine.

"Pansy's problem with me today wasn't that I'm my father's son, it was that… Well, I suppose look like him…a little –" He hated that thought, but the Malfoy blood ran true, and he had to admit there _was_ more than a passing similarity between him and his father.

"No, you don't," Hermione interrupted fiercely.

"It's all right, Hermione. You don't have to say that. It's hardly unexpected that I would resemble my father."

"You _don't_," she repeated firmly and frowned, and he let it go with a shrug.

"So if Pansy's not bothered by the fact that he's my father, it shouldn't bother her that my mother is his wife. And…well, maybe it'll help my mother see my father for what he is more clearly. And mother always did like Pansy – she would want to help her, and be there for her." His jaw bunched as he fought down an absurd hint of jealousy toward Pansy. "I don't think mother would even _think _of trying to defend my father to Pansy, the way she has to me."

"Well, you can always ask her," Hermione said, tugging the last snarl out of her hair and lying down curled into him on her side, nestling her head down on his shoulder. He wrapped his maimed arm around her shoulders and grimaced at the thought of seeing Pansy again. He obviously couldn't avoid her forever, but Merlin-damnit, he _wanted_ to.

"Yeah, I suppose I can," he said without meaning it, and then a moment later poked Hermione lightly in the stomach, making her squirm. "Can't you ask her…?"

"Draco…no. No. I don't particularly want to see her again any time soon after what she said to me, and she's your friend, not mine. _You_ do it," she said immediately annoyed and a little sulky. "You're not Harry and Ron and so I'm _not_ doing everything for you, like they tried to make me do for them. You can damn well do it yourself. Anyway," she added, relenting a little and tone softening, "I'm sure everything will be okay, when she sobers up."

"Everything _is_ okay, isn't it?" Draco asked casually, meaning _everything_ and trying not to put the still-nervous weight he felt into the words he spoke, and Hermione understood and nodded against him, twisted her face to brush his chest with a kiss. "Yeah," she said. "Everything's okay."

The _'for now'_ hung unspoken in the air between them, as he breathed in her warm scent of vanilla and flowers and their sex, and she sighed and curled her arm around his waist.

_**# # #**_

**Author's Note: **Hopefully, that was both soul-suckingly awful, and then, at the end there, really quite sweet. Or that was what I was going for, anyway. **16,000 **bloody words written in four days, while looking after two sick under-5's, and everything is a distorted blur and I have no even **vaguely** objective opinion as to the quality of this chapter :p

Someone – I can't remember who – mentioned aaaaages ago that Draco, Hermione and everyone should watch **Star Wars** together, which I agreed with heartily, so finally, at last, they did watch it :D

And poor Pansy :( Poor everybody :( I initially just was just going to have Pansy and Hermione being wary and such with each other, and interacting more banally than that, and then **that** happened, and I was like, **YES! **I thought it was a fun way for Hermione and Pansy to interact, and it brought up Draco's past actions and attitudes again in a way that I think has actually been healthy for Hermione and Draco, and created a sense of closure for them.

I really **loved** writing the scene with Harry, Ron, and Draco, and finding a dynamic that works for them. I tried to keep them in character, of course, and I think they're actually **really** awesome together, and make a perfect trio, and I had so, so much fun writing that. So, I hope you enjoyed reading it just as much as I did writing it!

Also, what do you think of the dynamics of Hermione and Draco's relationship now? I'm trying to show this change into an actual relationship, that is solid and committed despite all the uncertainty to the future, and for so long I've written them as on/off angst/drama with each other, I'm not sure if this new dynamic I'm beginning to do is actually any good or not. So I'd love to know what you think of their interactions throughout this chapter, and if you like the way I'm portraying their relationship.

Hope you liked the smut, too :p

As always comments, **reviews**, expressions of enjoyment, emoticons of approval, and suggestions for what you'd like to see happen, are shamelessly **begged** for ::holds out metaphorical review hat, dances::


	42. Life's Waiting

**Author's Note:** Thank you **so much** to everyone who's reviewed! I'm hoping against hope that I can make it to 1000 reviews before the end of the story, and I only have a handful of chapters left, so _please_, if you've enjoyed the story, leave me a short comment with your appreciation and I will be ever so thankful :D So that I stop swamping my Facebook page with chapter progress updates (that I'm compelled to share despite the fact that no one cares about them) and in case anyone wants to know how far away the next chapter is, or prod at me to get writing, or whatever, I've set up a page which you can find at Facebook, at /theriskrewardratio :) This chapter was a right bastard to write at certain points (and really fun at others!) so I hope you enjoy it – I went for a _slightly_ different style than my usual, trying to cover the events happening over a period of time with a sort of…overview?…as well as my usual individual scenes spaced out over the time period. Apologies for any typos. I hope you enjoy the chapter!

**# # # # # #**

**Life's Waiting**

_My dearest friends_

_Even if your hope has burned with time_

_Anything that's dead shall be regrown_

_And your vicious pain, your warning sign_

_You will be fine._

_Hello, here I am_

_And here we go, life's waiting to begin_

_[The Adventure, Angels and Airwaves]_

**# # # # # #**

Three days later, Pansy left Godric's Hollow early in the morning hours, and Hermione had to admit she was relieved that the Slytherin girl was leaving, feeling like equilibrium was being returned and things could go back to normal. She had tried to avoid Pansy the last few days, since the incident in the kitchen, and Draco had too, as much as possible. He'd gone to see Pansy to ask her about staying at the same safehouse as Narcissa, but other than that, he'd kept out of her way. And he'd insisted Hermione go with him when he spoke to Pansy, too. The awkwardness had most _definitely_ lingered between the three of them. Hermione sighed to herself; she'd only come down to say goodbye to Pansy because she thought Draco would want her to be there. Not that he'd said anything, but she could tell, regardless. She was starting to learn to read him like a book – albeit one that admittedly sometimes seemed to use invisible ink. Hermione hung back, watching as Pansy carried her one small bag of things into the foyer, and looked around at the assembled people blankly.

Mrs Weasley and Remus had been the only others to bother to come and say goodbye to Pansy, as Tiptree waited impatiently by the front door, glaring at the Slytherin girl. Remus shook her hand and mentioned visiting Pansy when the moon was close to full again, to make sure she was doing all right with her lycanthropy, and Mrs Weasley pressed a cake tin into the girl's hands and patted her on the shoulder, saying something about how she was too thin. Hermione watched from the stairs as Draco hugged Pansy tightly, whispering something in her ear, and the girl's thin hands clutched at the back of his shirt, clinging to him for a moment after Draco had released her.

And then she came walking over to Hermione, up the few steps to where Hermione hovered, and _hugged_ her. Hermione was so lost in shock she almost forgot to hug the other girl in return, mind racing, wondering why on earth Pansy Parkinson would want to hug Hermione. And then Pansy was murmuring in her ear, "His birthday's June 5th, and I _bet_ you didn't know that, Granger," and letting go of Hermione.

"Thanks for not being a bitch," Pansy said loud and flatly, smiling faintly, and then turned away, retreating down the stairs and taking Delia Tiptree's arm, popping out of the house with a crack. Hermione frowned, forehead furrowing up as Draco came up the stairs and raised his eyebrow at her.

"So…Pansy hugged you. That was rather unexpected," he said dryly.

"It was…" Hermione agreed, mind elsewhere, thinking – _June fifth? But that's only a couple of weeks away!_ – with something rather like panic in her mental voice. Draco hadn't mentioned it to her, and she just…hadn't thought to ask about prosaic things like birthdays. So Pansy had told Hermione behind the protective screen of a hug. How very Slytherin of the girl. And how unexpectedly sweet, that she had wanted Draco's birthday to be recognised, and celebrated. She pictured the way Pansy had clung to Draco in that last hug, and a lump rose in her throat, unable to deny the closeness of Draco and Pansy's relationship, and not wanting to. It was okay that they were friends. Really, truly, Hermione told herself determinedly.

"Did she say anything?" Draco pressed, interlocking their fingers casually and leading Hermione down the stairs and through toward the kitchen. Hermione shrugged, Draco's hand warm in hers.

"You heard her," she said, avoiding a lie because she really was terrible at lying, and Draco was almost never fooled by her attempts. He shot her a funny look, suspicious, as if he _knew _there was more to it than that, but didn't say anything. It was early, and the kitchen was empty except for Mrs Weasley, who dished up a bowl of porridge for each of them with a smile. They thanked her, taking the food through to the dining room, which was empty and quiet, the sun streaming in through the net curtains at the windows and bathing Draco's hair in gold.

"So…what did _you_ say to her?"

"What?" Draco asked around a mouthful of porridge, jerking his head up to stare at Hermione, startled grey eyes catching the light, and she nibbled at her lip, stirring her spoon through her porridge, suddenly realising how nosy she'd been.

"Nothing, never mind."

"What did I say to Pansy?" He repeated her words, giving Hermione a superior sort of tolerantly amused look, and she looked down at her porridge, blushing. "Sorry. You don't have to tell me."

"I told her that I was sorry," he said and her eyes flicked up to him, watching as he spooned up some more porridge. That he was _sorry_, Hermione thought, when none of it was even his fault. She knew immediately that it hadn't been an expression of sympathy that Draco had given Pansy, but a strange sort of acceptance of blame, for the crimes of his father. She didn't say anything though, didn't try to argue; if Draco blamed himself, nothing would dissuade himself from it. And this morning, she didn't feeling like fighting with him. Instead, she thought about what she _could _do for him. She would do something nice, something unexpected – something _normal_ that an ordinary Muggle girlfriend might do for her ordinary Muggle boyfriend. Hermione smiled to herself, already planning, making lists in her head. Draco was going to turn eighteen on June fifth, and Hermione was _not_ going to let the day pass by unnoticed.

**# # # # # #**

The days rolled by, all the same – nothing to occupy them, and yet the weight of anticipation hung in the air, making everyone edgy, nerves fraying thin.

Hermione asked Mrs Weasley to teach her to bake; ostensibly just because it was something to do with the days, but really because she rather wanted to make Draco's cake herself, and have it actually be edible. He sat at the kitchen table during Hermione's lessons, tutoring Ginny in potions theory while Hermione followed Mrs Weasley's instructions, wondering _why_, if she was so good at potions, she wasn't brilliant at baking too. They were both just following a recipe with exact precision, and yet she didn't seem to have the _knack_ for baking, whatever that was. Draco put on a great show of reluctance about tutoring Ginny, but he seemed to enjoy it in a strange sort of way. He was _not_ an easy teacher, but a good one; making Ginny explain things in great detail, asking unexpected questions, snapping when she didn't pay attention, scathing when she got something wrong. He was, Hermione thought to herself, frighteningly like Snape, when it came to potions.

It disturbed her immensely that she found that rather attractive.

Draco sat outside and had a few drinks with Ron and Harry in the evenings after dinner – just the boys; Hermione, Ginny and Cho were not allowed. Not that they had dared to say that to the girls, of course, but it went _without_ saying. So Hermione found other things to do for those several hours, most often playing with Teddy, or helping Ginny study. The boys' drinking sessions had become habit, a tradition only a handful of days in existence, but Hermione knew that if circumstances allowed, it would become a long-standing one. It made Hermione feel warm inside, to stick her head out the front door and spy them sitting there sipping at beers and talking shit in that mixture of insults and light banter the three seemed to use to communicate. None of _them_ would admit to it, but they were undeniably becoming friends, of a sort, and that, more than anything else, made Hermione happy. Like everything in her life was slotting into place, although not necessarily where or how she had expected, or hoped.

They watched a movie every night in the lounge with half the occupants of Godric's Hollow, and the occasional visitors from other Order houses, who were _fascinated _by the films. Hermione curled up by Draco's side. He acted both awkward with her being so open affectionate in front of the others, and smug about their relationship – with that maddeningly attractive and irritating superior arrogance in the thin lines of his face and the way he slung his arm possessively around her shoulders. Sometimes she minded Teddy during a movie, and those evenings Draco didn't seem to know what do with himself; so horribly awkward around the baby. She sat next to him, as usual, but he always edged away from her a little, shooting Teddy nervous looks as though he was afraid the baby was going to explode. But later on, on those evenings, Draco would take her to bed and screw her with such wrenching intensity that Hermione felt like _she_ was going to explode, a hungry, desperate, sort of longing on his face and in his touch.

She didn't let her thoughts linger on what that meant – she didn't think that would be wise – but a strange hurt gripped at her chest those nights, lurking beneath the pleasure he made ripple through her.

Cho was researching Muggle prosthetics, and Hermione helped her look through the books and pamphlets on the subject – Cho's injury wasn't old enough or healed enough for her to be fitted with a prosthetic, and it would be very difficult to arrange during the war anyway, but one day they could do it. Cho was amazed by the advanced nature of Muggle technology, and Hermione, for her part, paid particular attention to the hand prosthetics. They weren't half as good as the ones for leg amputations – hands were so much more complex than legs and feet, and there was only so much Muggle technology could do. But they were better than having _no_ hand, in Hermione's opinion, and the technology was always improving.

She left a pamphlet with information on prosthetic hands and arms on her bed for Draco to find, hoping he'd find it interesting – give him something to think about – but he was furious. He didn't want some clumsy, fake abomination of a hand, he raged, waving the pamphlet in her face. He wanted his hand back, and as he couldn't bloody well have that, would she _please_ refrain from shoving this kind of Muggle shit in his face, because it didn't fucking help, it only made him _think_ about the lack of his hand, and feel worse. If she really hated him being maimed so much, he snarled at her, then she should just fucking leaving him, because one of those false, hideous, plastic things wouldn't make a damn bit of difference.

He slept in the cellar that night, and Hermione cried herself to sleep. She had only wanted to help, she thought miserably, stifling her tears in her pillow.

The next day Draco knocked on her bedroom door before breakfast and said a stilted _sorry_, face pale and set and still angry and resentful beneath the surface, and instead of accepting his apology Hermione yelled at him for a good ten minutes about being a selfish, thoughtless, arsehole – loud enough for the rest of the house to hear it out through her open bedroom door. He opened his mouth to yell right back, and then snapped it shut, and with visible effort said, "You're right. I'm sorry. I'm very sorry, Hermione." The words ground out of him like saying them hurt, but he'd said them and that counted for something. She forgave him, reluctantly, perfunctorily, just to end the argument, and avoided him for the rest of the day, still feeling hurt.

But that night he made another sort of apology, and that made everything better. She found him sitting on her – their – bed, looking through the pamphlet with a grim sort of determination on his face, and her heart twinged and jumped in her chest, an aching warmth bubbling up in her.

"It's interesting, what Muggles can do," was all he said, not lifting his eyes from the pamphlet, and Hermione had felt like crying at the tight-twisted roughness in his voice. The hurt there as he stared at the mock limbs that no one could ever mistake as real, that were so limited in what they could do, that just reminded him of his disability.

"Yes. It is, isn't it?" She sat down beside him, feeling all nervous and fumbling, and apologetic herself. "I know – I know these prosthetics aren't the same as… And I really don't care about your hand; whether you've got one or not, I mean. I just thought…"

He lifted his head from the pamphlet, smiled at her, that rare sweet, wistful kind of smile he had – the expression always making her heart jolt, she saw it so little – and nodded, grey eyes solemn on her face.

"I know what you thought, Hermione. And I was an utter arsehole to you."

"You were, a little," she admitted, smiling and bumping her shoulder into his affectionately.

"A lot," he said, twisting to face her, and his hand dropped the pamphlet and slid up lightly her neck, fingers cradling just behind her ear, thumb over the pulse point in her throat. Smirked at her, the expression somehow obscene. "I think I need to make it up to you. Granger."

Absurdly, it made her stomach flip-flop when he called her Granger these days, although she almost always pretended irritation. It was part of the game. She bit her lip and frowned at him, although her mouth wanted to twitch into a grin, and pressed forward into the light touch of his hand. "I think you do, too, Malfoy," she played along, voice stern, and then Draco leant forward and his lips met hers, and in the long, happy moments following, everything was forgiven and forgotten.

Draco went to visit his mother and Pansy every day for an hour or so, and each time he came back from the safehouse with a strange, wounded expression on his face. Like he was hurting, hopeful, and angry at once – and sometimes just filled with pent up frustration. Hermione wanted to talk to him about what happened, which led her to pester him about it immediately after he'd gotten back from his very first visit. That had led to a vicious argument, because he hadn't wanted to talk, and she _had_, and both of them were just so damn stubborn. But she hated fighting with him; not the light, almost playful disagreements they indulged in all the time – she liked those all right – but real, raw, arguments upset her, so she didn't ask him about the visits again.

She knew she wasn't just curious, she was downright _nosy_ sometimes, and Draco didn't always want to share everything right away, and Hermione told herself she needed to respect that. So instead, he went outside when he returned, standing on the back porch and staring into the garden, and she left him alone – gave him a wide berth. Most of the time he ended up telling her what had happened anyway, later on when _he_ was ready to.

Pansy was sober now, there being no drink available at the safehouse, and she and Draco had gotten past the awkwardness the incident in the kitchen had created, apparently. Draco told Hermione that Pansy seemed to like it at the safehouse with Narcissa, although she found the children irritating. He was civil with his mother, and close with Pansy, and it was a part of his life that Hermione was excluded from, which she thought was healthy, but was a little strange all the same. They'd been entwined so closely for so long, him having no one but her to lean on. He'd had no one else to talk to, and now he did, and Hermione wasn't the only thing in his universe anymore – so she had to learn to share him. She didn't particularly like it all the time, but she recognised that it was natural, and how things _had_ been, had been unhealthy for them. She couldn't be the entirety of his world.

"She chose me," Draco said out of the blue one night, lying in bed and drifting off to sleep together, and Hermione blinked and roused herself, tried to clear her foggy brain. He'd been to visit his mother and Pansy, and…

"Oh," Hermione said, small and happy. "Your – your mother chose you?"

He snugged her closer back against him – spooned together in her single bed, tucked his chin against her shoulder, and nodded, made a quiet sound of assent.

"That's good," she said, but he didn't seem overjoyed, and Hermione tilted her head up and around, trying and failing to meet his eyes. She wriggled out of their spooning position, rolling to face him, nose to nose, her hand coming up to rest feather-light on his jaw. "Isn't it? Good, I mean?"

"Yes." Draco's eyes shifted away from hers, luminous in the moonlight that streamed through her bedroom windows. "It is, I suppose, although the pleasant feelings are somewhat soured by the fact that it took her so long to decide." His voice was dry and he clenched his jaw, and Hermione stroked it gently, leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth. "It's something," she tried with quiet optimism.

"It is," he agreed tiredly, his hand coming up to cover hers. "I – was afraid she'd choose him."

"I know." She had been able to tell it was weighing on his mind, not that he'd talked much about it. "But she didn't. She chose _you_. And…well, they've been married for a long time – I can understand why it was hard for her to give up hope on him. Can't you?" She _didn't_ really understand, not truly – she could never imagine being torn between Draco and Lucius if she were Narcissa, but intellectually Hermione thought she could see how it would be hard for Draco's mother to let go of her husband. She obviously loved Lucius a lot, for who he had been once, a long time ago. It didn't make Hermione warm to Narcissa at all, but it was the truth, and she thought it might help Draco to hear it.

"I suppose," Draco said, a little warmth seeping into his chill voice, and Hermione smiled at him, kissed him lightly again, his cheek faintly stubbled and rasping under her lips. "I don't think her taking a while to tell you her decision means anything, Draco. I don't think it means she loves you any less. It just means she loves _him_ a lot, too, however misguided that love might be. You're her son, Draco, and much as I don't really…like her…it's obvious she adores you."

It wasn't easy praising Narcissa to Draco – she was a stuck up, haughty, bigoted woman, and had treated Hermione like she didn't even exist – but _he_ needed to know that at least one of his parents still cared about him. And it _was_ true – Narcissa's affection for Draco had been made blindingly obvious to Hermione, just in the few times Hermione had seen her since Draco had defected.

Saying that seemed to help, and the tension slowly eased out of Draco. His arm came up around her, resting over her waist and pulling her closer to him and Hermione burrowed her face down into his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The night was silent, and the moment languid, and she shut her eyes against the spill of moonlight through the windows and listened to his heart thud, felt the brush of his fingers over the naked skin of her back, curled her own arm around him, all tangled up together.

"Thanks, Hermione," he said quietly into her hair, and she smiled against Draco's chest, the two little words making a suffusion of warmth seep into her as she drifted into sleep.

Finally, one afternoon Remus called the people going on the Russian chemical weapons storage facility mission to the dining room table, and told them it would likely only be another four or five days until they were ready to go on the mission. They were forbidden from going on any other missions, and told to make sure they were ready. Once they'd heard that, the tension in the air ratcheted up another notch. Everyone was _waiting_, _anticipating_, and Hermione was just as affected as everyone else, if not more so. Unusually, for her, she couldn't seem to sit still. Couldn't seem to focus. If this mission failed, the only options left would be a full assault on Gringotts, or a couple of people trying to slip in, and neither plan seemed as likely to succeed as this one. The importance of the mission weighed on her – she hadn't even really wanted to go on it, she had only been so insistent because _Draco_ had volunteered himself.

Hermione felt like she was _trapped_ in the Godric's Hollow house – getting cabin fever for the first time since she'd been travelling around searching for horcruxes, and living in that _bloody_ tent with Harry and Ron. Draco was distracted – mending things between himself and Narcissa, and finally tentatively finding a place for himself in the Order, and Madeleine Dubois-Volkov turned out to be the answer to Hermione's nervous boredom. The _Enseignante_wanted someone skilled in potions to assist her in her work – her personal work, which she was continuing in a makeshift laboratory, in cellar of the safehouse she was located at. It would be something to do, at least; something to take her mind off the mission looming in front of her, and Hermione eagerly grabbed at the opportunity.

Madeleine Dubois-Volkov's lab was well-lit, crammed full of a strange mixture of equipment; modern beakers and ancient cauldrons, a well-cared for old microscope sitting beside a jar holding a trapped flitwisp, a multitude of labelled glass vials in a Muggle refrigeration unit that appeared to be somehow working via magic rather than electricity, chemical compounds all muddled up with potions ingredients… Hermione's eyes swept the large cellar, over all the equipment, and landed on _Enseignante_Dubois-Volkov – the woman's ash-brown hair was twisted up in a loose bun with a pen jammed through it to keep it up, a pair of old-fashioned spectacles was perched at the end of her nose, and she wore Muggle clothes, with her wand sticking out of her trouser pocket.

"Hermione Granger?" Dubois-Volkov asked, glancing up sharply from the Muggle book she was flicking through, blue eyes piercing straight through Hermione, as though she were a specimen of some kind that the older witch was studying. Hermione swallowed, feeling unaccountably nervous; the woman might look a little mad, yes, but obviously she was stable, or the Order wouldn't have wanted her. She just seemed rather…eccentric, standing there in her mismatched Muggle clothing, flicking swiftly through the book and muttering to herself in a muddled patois of French and Russian.

"Yes, Ms Dubois-Volkov. I'm Hermione Granger. Er, Charlie Weasley told me that you were looking for an assistant…?" She was hesitant, uncertain, and actually jumped when the woman slammed her book shut and straightened, canting her head birdlike to one side and examining Hermione closely.

"_Oui_," Dubois-Volkov said briskly, and then her sharp face creased into a smile that made her suddenly look far more approachable and friendly, and far _less_ mad scientist. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Hermione. And please, call me Maddy."

Dubois-Volkov turned out to be just as eccentric as she had first appeared – outside of her natural environment she was crisp and taciturn, as she had been when Hermione had first met her at the meeting at Godric's, but in her lab she was someone else entirely. Animated, talking to herself and Hermione, buzzing about the makeshift lab excitedly – she was nothing like Snape, but obviously even more of a genius at potions than even the Hogwarts Potions teacher – now, Hermione thought with a grimace, _headmaster_. Madeleine – she just didn't seem a _Maddy_ – set Hermione to work preparing magical ingredients, while she measured, weighed and otherwise prepared Muggle ones. She was, she told Hermione in quick, staccato sentences, working on a cure for dementia – looking for ways to use magical ingredients to preserve brain function in elderly Muggles, at the moment. Of course, it would be extremely difficult to distribute such a treatment to Muggles, but such practical issues appeared not to concern Madeleine Dubois-Volkov in the slightest.

Several hours after having arrived at Madeleine's safehouse Hermione was stuck standing over a bubbling cauldron, stirring twelve clockwise, and three counter clockwise. She'd stripped off her jersey; it was so hot standing over the boiling liquid, wafting drifts of medicinal-smelling steam into her face. Madeleine kept throwing her odd looks, and Hermione realised slowly what the other witch was staring at. Her scars. She felt a cringe wrench through her, and hunched her shoulders. In a low-necked, short-sleeved shirt, they were fully on display, and Hermione was so used to them now she hadn't even thought about it. But now, now she was excruciatingly aware, and she wished she'd worn a different shirt. She refused to pull her jersey back on though, just stiffened her shoulders and kept stirring; twelve clockwise, three counter clockwise, a sick feeling swirling in her stomach in time with the liquid in the cauldron.

"Your scars – Dark Magic?" Madeleine asked with blunt, unemotional curiosity as she checked the potion's consistency and colour, and Hermione tensed, _remembering_. She faltered in her stirring, and her chest went tight, the beginnings of panic she hadn't felt in so, so long rose up in her again. She shoved it back down with an effort, trying to focus on the present, on how far she had come, on the fact that she wasn't going to let that time in the Malfoy Manor rule her.

"A cursed blade," she got out at last, as Madeleine eyed her scars with those sharp, shifting blue eyes, all intellectual interest with no trace of sympathy – but then again, no pity either, which was actually rather pleasant.

"Interesting…very interesting."

Hermione tightened her lips. She would hardly call it _interesting_, and she said so in a strangled, cold sort of voice that to her sounded very much like Draco's when _he _was angry. Madeleine blinked rapidly and bobbed her head in apologetic acknowledge.

"No, of course, you would not. _Pardon_; sometimes I become carried away, and forget…" Madeleine reached out to touch the horrid slur inscribed into Hermione's arm, and she automatically jerked back. She didn't like anyone touching them, didn't _let _anyone, not even Draco, although she no longer tried to hide them away when she was around Draco, Harry and Ron. She just preferred to try to pretend the scars didn't exist, and more and more these days she was succeeding, as long as she didn't see them in the mirror. But when she _was_ reminded of the scars, everything rushed back – clear and stark and grindingly hurtful.

"The Healers…could not remove them, then?" Madeleine asked with a little more sombre restraint in her voice, dipping out a vial of the potion and nodding at Hermione to stop stirring. Hermione stepped back from the cauldron gratefully, pushing sticky wisps of hair back off her forehead and following Madeleine to the microscope.

"No. By the time I got to a proper Healer, they said it was too late; that the curses had set too deeply. Maybe after the war, they might be able to do something to draw the magic out. _Maybe_." Hermione shrugged – to be honest, the Healers hadn't given her much hope. Bellatrix's knife must be a very valuable artefact, because the curses it was imbued with were ancient and powerful according to the Healers – and sealed within her scars, lacerating her and tainting her. She shook her head clear, focusing on the moment; Madeleine spreading a little of the potion thinly on a slide, and examining it under the microscope carefully.

"Healers, _pah!_ What do they know? How to fix the common injuries, how to return what was broken to its original state. They are not _creators_, or innovative types. They simply _apply_ curatives that other, _better_, minds invent," Madeleine said with impressively off-hand disparagement, squinting into the microscope. "But one would think even _Healers_ would be able to remove a curse, with enough time spent investigating the injury."

"Unfortunately, ah, Maddy, that's part of the issue – the few Healers we have left alive don't have time to spend investigating ancient curses to satisfy my _vanity_," Hermione said tightly, feeling all balled up and knotted inside, and half-wishing she hadn't come to see Madeleine Dubois-Volkov, no matter how interesting it had been up until now.

"Well," Madeleine said, lifting those piercing blue eyes from the microscope and pinning Hermione. "I may not have much free time – so many projects, so little time, such is my life… But a _puzzle_, a problem with no solution…that always intrigues me." She blinked at Hermione owlishly, spectacles dangling around her neck from a fine gold chain. "If you would not object, I should like to examine your scars, and see if I can find a solution, which your _Healers _cannot."

Hermione stared at the woman, and then down at her arms. Jagged words cut into them. She had thought she would live with them for the rest of her life – always reminding her of that day, and the terror and pain and humiliation, and Draco standing there just _watching_,and it _still_ hurt to remember the look on his face as he had watched – so if there was even the faintest chance that they could be healed… "I wouldn't object," she said breathlessly, quiet and small and choked with sudden, almost painful hope. "I wouldn't object at all."

"Very well," Madeleine said with brisk cheerfulness, seemingly oblivious to the turbulent feelings her offer had created in Hermione. The older witch turned her attention back to the microscope. "Remind me to take a look after we're finished here," she said, sounding distracted, absorbed once more in the potion she was examining, Hermione's situation flying from her mind, and Hermione stood there watching with her heart thundering in her chest, fists clenched, shaky, and choked up with a terrible hope.

**# # # # # #**

The days slid by, one after the other and each the same – something hanging in the air that made everyone edgy and irritable, including Draco himself. Ginny Weasley was snapping at everyone, Hermione was acting like a caged bloody dragon half the time, Ron Weasley spent most of his time doing things Draco didn't want to think about with Cho Chang, and Shacklebolt and his…_old friend_, Kiam, were also spending a great deal of time secreted away in Shacklebolt's room, _also_ doing things that Draco didn't want to think about. The two men were perfunctorily acting as though all they were _was_ just friends, but they weren't fooling anyone – although for some reason everyone played along with their farce. Draco wasn't quite sure why they were trying to hide it, or why the Order was playing along. If Shacklebolt and Kiam didn't want the fact that they were screwing each other to be public knowledge, then they should bloody well _not_ all but shag on the lounge floor in front of the whole Order. Non-Slytherins appeared to have no fucking idea how to be discreet.

Draco filled his days with people. Hermione, his mother, Pansy, Potter and Weasley, tutoring Ginny Weasley, watching the Muggle movies with everyone in the evenings like one great big bloody happy family. Draco had never been around people that he didn't constantly have to be on his guard around, whom he wasn't trying to impress, manipulate, control, or present a carefully cultivated image to. For the first time since he'd gone off to Hogwarts, Draco could just _be himself_ around people, and he didn't know what the hell he was supposed to do with _that_.

Hermione told him that it was good, that it was how things were meant to be, but Draco wasn't used to it and it made him feel uneasy. Disconcerted. He'd only just gotten used to dropping all the masks and facades with Hermione without feeling fucking weird about it, and now everyone wanted him to act like some Merlin-damned Hufflepuff and be genuine and friendly all the time. Well, they were sorely disappointed. Draco wasn't going to become someone else in order to fit in. He was…still a Malfoy, he admitted to himself, and he wasn't ashamed of _all_ that being a Malfoy meant, only _most _of it.

But he did his best to make Hermione happy, because…because Pansy was right when she said he was madly in love with Hermione, and had gone soft. So every night Draco spent some time with Potter and Weasley, and to his surprise, actually didn't hate it too terribly. He tried to beat some potions knowledge into Ginny Weasley's head, and was shocked to find that one of the Weasleys appeared to have some brains beneath that carroty hair. And he went to visit his mother and Pansy every day with Tiptree, and tentatively began to reform some sort of relationship with his mother. Even after she chose him, he wasn't sure if anything would ever be how it was once – in fact he was rather certain it _couldn't_ be, because too much had changed. But, as Hermione was fond of saying, with that infuriating hopeful lilt to her voice, it was something.

Three days before the mission, Draco snapped awake from a nightmare with the echoes of his own screams ringing in his mind, his teeth clenched tightly together, and his hand balled up in the sheet. He was crying, tears trickling from his eyes in his sleep like he was leaking, and his heart was racing, he was damp with fear-sweat. And his stump throbbed with horrible remembered pain. Hermione was lying on it, Draco realised as the fog of sleep cleared, and her elbow was jammed on top, digging into the injury. It was probably _that_ which had made him dream of his father…he gulped, didn't finish the thought, trying not to let the dream-memory loom in his mind again, and mostly failing. Flashes of the pain, the humiliation, the fucking heartbreaking betrayal of it encroached on his mind and he swore to himself, angrily scrubbing the tears from his cheeks..

He carefully pulled his maimed arm out from beneath Hermione and she made a soft mumbling noise and shifted in her sleep, face hidden beneath a swathe of hair, and he was relieved that he at least hadn't woken her up by screaming aloud. He'd done that several times, and there was a deep mortification to it, which Draco did most certainly _not_ enjoy. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and steeled himself against the deep throb that was spiking sharply to pulsing life in his stump. It didn't go away – kept aching and hurting, and with a groan he glanced over at the time. It was two in the damned morning, and Draco didn't think he could get any more sleep that night, not with the vivid images still so fucking clear in his mind, and the pain radiating from his arm.

He slipped out of bed without waking Hermione, who was sleeping like the dead, and jerked on a pair of pyjama trousers and a long-sleeved shirt. He stared down at her; she sprawled herself out across the free space Draco's exit had left in the bed, her arms outflung and mouth ajar, snoring faintly. She wore no shirt, and her nipples were a silvered pink in the moonlight, the scars Aunt Bella had left on her dark and ugly in the pale wash of light. It hurt to see them, bringing back memories he'd rather forget – but even if he could forget, he wouldn't allow himself to. He deserved the guilt. He deserved to feel that sickened pang of _hurt_, just like Hermione did every time she saw them. His mind wandered. Today, Hermione had returned from her first trip to Madeleine Dubois-Volkov's laboratory simmering with a contained excitement, and told Draco in hesitantly hopeful tones that Dubois-Volkov thought she could find a way to remove the scars.

Hermione never really let Draco touch them – when he brushed his lips against her arm, or chest, as though he could kiss away the marks, she stiffened – didn't push him away, but she might as well have. When his hand encroached on the scars on her stomach when he was exploring her luscious, naked body, she pulled back and made a small sound of protest. He'd eventually stopped trying to touch them – stopped trying to prove to her that the scars didn't matter, didn't mean anything to him, and didn't mar her in his eyes, because no matter how little _he_ cared, she obviously cared a great deal. He glanced down at his truncated arm now, in the dim silvery light that trickled in the windows. He understood how she felt, all too bloody well. Dubois-Volkov had fucking better be able to keep her word to investigate the matter, because all evening Hermione had been fluttering and jittering with nervous hope, and if Dubois-Volkov couldn't fulfil her promise, Hermione would be crushed. Devastated.

She murmured something in her sleep again, and a tenderness that half-frightened Draco filled him to overflowing as he stared down at her. So peaceful in her sleep. So soft and gentle and pure. Draco leaned down, plucking a lock of hair draped across her mouth and nose off her face, and she pursed her lips and mumbled something incoherent; her hand rose in the air and then fell back to the pillow by her head. She deserved to have Bellatrix's marks erased from her skin – she wasn't like him. Her outsides may have been damaged by the war, she may have been emotionally battered and bruised, but who she was inside, the _core _of her, was still everything pure and noble and all the best parts of Gryffindor. Not like Draco. No, he was marked inside and out, both.

He swept the guilt from his mind with grim decisiveness, slipped silently from the room, and made his way down the stairs. The house was utterly silent; like a tomb. At this hour, everyone else was asleep, or else had privacy charms up, and there was a curious peace hanging in the still, cool air. He got a drink from the liquor cabinet – one nightcap that Hermione didn't know about wouldn't hurt. Glass of firewhiskey in hand he padded on bare feet out toward the back porch. It was secluded, private, and there was a certain restfulness to the overgrown garden out the back, all greens and browns and splashes of bright colour. Like its own little world, sheltered from the rest of Godric's Hollow.

He opened the door awkwardly, juggling his glass and the door handle, and swore internally as he saw a figure standing at the porch railing. It was Nymphadora, swaying from side to side like a gentle metronome, her son in her arms, cooing softly up at his mother. Fuck. Draco couldn't even get some damned privacy in the middle of the fucking night, he thought with slightly desperate anger. He'd just wanted some time alone to clear the nightmare visions from his mind, to blow away the clinging threads of pain, and betrayal, and his father mocking him with hard, cruel eyes as he cut away Draco's hand.

He backed up, trying to slip away without Nymphadora seeing him, but it was too late – the door creaked and Nymphadora's head jerked up from her child, her eyes fell on him, and he froze in the doorway, frustration welling up. He knew what came next. Conversation. Friendly outreach. And he did _not_ feel like suffering through that right now.

"Draco. Couldn't sleep?" Nymphadora said, interrupting his escape, and Draco winced in annoyance, came out onto the porch and let the door swing shut behind him with a rattle and a muted bang.

"No. Obviously not," he said crisply as he walked over to the railing beside her and sipped at his drink, the firewhiskey warming him from the inside out.

"Neither could Teddy. Merlin, I swear this bloody child of ours will sleep any time, anywhere, _except_ when and where we want him to," Nymphadora said with affectionate annoyance, and tickled her son's cheek.

"Mm," Draco grunted a perfunctory sort of reply, and sipped at his drink again, not eager to encourage Nymphadora to talk.

"Why couldn't you sleep, cousin?" Nymphadora asked lightly, nudging his arm with her elbow, raising an eyebrow. Draco's eyes narrowed as she mentioned their relationship, like it was a way to draw him out, make him feel obligated to reply. She generally didn't mention their familial bonds. He frowned.

"I just couldn't," he said sharply, eyes fixed on the silhouetted tree in the middle of the garden, its spidery branches cutting black through the moon-washed sly.

"Bad dreams?" Nymphadora asked knowingly, and Draco made a harsh, sighing sound and nodded once. "Yes."

"I get them too, sometimes. Especially when there's a mission coming up that Remus is involved in. Not things that have happened, generally, but things that _could_ happen. About Remus…and now, Teddy… Merlin, _horrible_ bloody dreams." There was a tremor to his cousin's voice, and Draco saw her blink hard, as if she was holding back tears, but she smiled at him tightly. "And then you can't go to sleep because the images are hanging in your head, and you're afraid if you go back to sleep – if you even _can _get to sleep – you'll just start dreaming it again."

"Yeah," Draco said quietly, staring at Nymphadora, and for a moment feeling a connection, a quiet understanding passing between the two of them.

"But then I remind myself that none of that's happened, and it's bloody well not _going_ to happen. There's no point in dwelling on what can go wrong, is there?" Brisk confidence returning to her voice, forced into it, and she smiled down at her child, her bubblegum pink hair falling in short wisps about her face, an infinite, fierce tenderness in her eyes.

"What about things that _have _happened then?" Draco asked despite himself, a note of anger to his voice. Lucky for her that she hadn't had anything terrible happen to her, lucky for her that all she had were fears of possibilities that might never occur. She eyed him with a sympathy that he hated, and there was pity in her voice when she spoke. "I don't know, Draco. I suppose I'd say there isn't any point in dwelling on what you can't change, but that's easier said than done, isn't it?"

"Unfortunately," Draco bit out coldly, wishing he'd never said anything, never revealed anything that had provoked the sympathy and pity in her eyes and her voice. He gulped back the rest of his firewhiskey and set the glass down on the porch railing, silent and tense, and Nymphadora turned her face back to her son. Hermione loved the baby; Teddy was a symbol of life and hope and joy for all of the Order, it seemed, but especially Hermione. She had, somewhat unexpectedly, taken to handling the baby with skilful ease, a quiet pleasure and contentment in her when she cradled him. And Draco always looked at her at those times, and saw things he could never give her, that he could never have himself. Children were important to pure bloods, and all his life it had been made clear to Draco that he was to marry and have children, to carry on the Malfoy line.

He had never liked children, never been interested in them. He would have married and produced heirs, as his parents wished him to, as was his duty, but he'd never personally wanted a child. Never felt the urge to have one – he had figured he would be a distant father, without much interest in any children his eventual marriage to Pansy or another pure blood witch would produce. But then Hermione had come along and at some point Draco realised he'd begun picturing a child that was part him and part her – the best parts of both of them. He could see she would want that, one day, and the worst of it was so did _he_. Ironically, when he finally actually thought the idea of having children was appealing, he couldn't do so. Even if – and it was looking more probably – he didn't go to Azkaban, and he stayed with Hermione, he wasn't sure if he could burden a child with the weight of having Draco Malfoy as a father. And if he wouldn't give Hermione what she wanted…well, that was just another strike against their relationship lasting.

Thinking of Azkaban made him realise he still hadn't thanked Nymphadora or any of the others for offering to speak for him. He bit his lip, composed himself.

"I should probably thank you," he began awkwardly. She looked at him, jiggling Teddy in her arms, head tilted to one side. "For what?"

"For being willing to speak for me after the war. That – was unexpected. I didn't think you would…"

"What? Bother? Care?" Nymphadora smiled at him, lopsided and bright. "Don't be stupid, Draco. You've well proved yourself in recent months. It's obvious to everyone that you've changed, and in light of your upbringing, your situation, and extenuating circumstances, and your change in attitude – well, it'd be downright ridiculous to lock you up after the war. After everything you've been doing to fight Voldemort since your defection."

"But the things I did, before then; I'll have to be _punished_ –" He ground the word out. "– for them, won't I?"

"You were just a kid, Draco. You're still just a kid, really," she said, grinning at his obvious dislike of being labelled a child, when he was in fact, of age and an adult. "You can't be held fully accountable for what you were pressured into by your family and Voldemort when you were under-age. All up, I'm hoping we can convince the Wizengamot to give you house arrest, or a magical ban. Neither of which will be particularly pleasant, but –"

Better than Azkaban," Draco finished quietly, and Nymphadora nodded.

"Exactly."

"Well," Draco said, a little stiffly, "Thank you. I…appreciate it more than I can say."

"You're welcome," Nymphadora nudged him, friendly and casual and beaming at him, and Draco slid his eyes away. He didn't know if he'd ever feel fully comfortable with the way the Order members were treating him now. He wasn't good at being nice to people, and he didn't know how to react when they were nice to him. They stood side-by-side in the night, Teddy Lupin remaining stubbornly awake, breaking the silence now and then with a mewl, or a gurgle. It was an oddly companionable silence, with Nymphadora putting no demands on Draco for conversation, and he actually, to his surprise, enjoyed having her company.

"Oh _Merlin_," she said exasperatedly after a time. "Ah, Draco…? I need to go to the loo. Would you mind holding Teddy for a minute? I'd put him down in his cot, except then he'll cry and wake Remus up, and you _don't_ want to know how hard it is to juggle a baby while you're going to the loo."

Draco made a disgusted face at that – a mental image he _didn't_ need, and then he clicked as to what Nymphadora had asked of him, and froze with terror. He took a step back, lifting up his hand, palm out, and shaking his head.

"_No_. No. I've never held a baby, I've only got one bloody hand to hang on to him with, and – and – just _no_. I don't like babies."

"Oh don't be stupid, you'll be fine – I'll only be a minute. Honestly," Nymphadora said, shaking her head at Draco's attitude and already shifting Teddy in her arms. "Now, come on, put your right arm out –"

"Nymphadora!" Draco snapped and she _laughed_ at him. "Honestly, he's just a baby, Draco. He can't hurt you."

"I just –"

"If you're appreciative of what I'll do for you after the war," Nymphadora said with a wicked grin. "Then bloody show it. Come on. Put your arm out, like this," she grabbed his maimed arm and arranged it so it crooked out across his body, and he let her, fuming at her over the emotional blackmail, and at himself for fucking well giving in to it. She nestled Teddy into the crook of his arm, and then took his left arm and wrapped it around the baby, so that his hand cupped the back of Teddy's head, for extra security. Teddy Lupin was radiating warmth through his blanket, and was surprisingly heavy; his head was fuzzy with a tuft of bright hair, and felt like velvet. Draco stood frozen, afraid of moving and dropping the baby, and Nymphadora patted him on the shoulder, tickled Teddy's cheek.

"There you go, that's not so bad, is it? I'll be right back, Draco, don't worry, won't be a minute," she said and hurried off, abandoning Draco outside with the child. He felt almost too afraid to _breathe_ for some ridiculous reason, and kept his arms locked tightly, staring down at the child. Teddy blinked, and turned his eyes up to Draco's face. Big, blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes, curious and wide, looking up at him uncomprehendingly. Draco's breath jerked in. The child was so soft, so warm, and as Draco gazed down at him, he burbled, one tiny, chubby hand flailing out of the blanket and grabbing aimlessly at Draco's shirt, patting at his chest.

"Bah!" Teddy said, and blinked, his fat baby face contorting into a grimace as Draco stood statue stiff and still, holding the infant awkwardly. "Bah!"

Merlin, the child was going to dissolve into tears, Draco knew it. He tried to remember how Nymphadora had rocked the baby, and tentatively, hesitantly, began to rock from foot to foot so that he and Teddy swayed gently. The contorted, unhappy expression stayed glued to Teddy's face. He opened his mouth, and Draco swore a string of silent curses in his head, helpless and about to panic – he was not fucking equipped to deal with a screaming infant. He rocked Teddy a little more vigorously, and jiggled him up and down in his arms.

"Don't cry. _Please_ don't bloody cry on me," he pleaded in a low murmur, and Teddy's open ready-to-wail mouth turned into a yawn. His eyes and nose scrunched up, and his toothless gums were put on full show, and Merlin, he was fucking unavoidably adorable. "Oh fucking Merlin-damnit," he said to Teddy in what he hoped was a soothing tone. "This is why I didn't want to hold you." Because he looked down at Teddy nestled there warm in his arms, and thought of things he'd never cared about, that now he did and he could never have, and it hurt more than it should have any fucking right to.

"I wouldn't be a good father anyway," Draco told Teddy in a whisper, feeling like a fucking idiot, talking to the child, but the sound of his voice seemed to soothe the baby, so he kept bloody doing it. "I'd be like my father, probably. And nobody needs a father like mine." His voice grew grim and Teddy frowned a tiny scrunched up baby frown and said, "Gleh!"

"Shh, it's okay. Your mother will be back in a minute, don't worry," he said, staring down into those big blue eyes; unafraid, unknowing, just formless curiosity, unjudgemental interest. Teddy didn't know who Draco was, or what he'd done, and that was strangely…freeing. Comforting. Teddy's warm little hand patted at Draco's chest, snatching at his shirt with surprising strength, and made a funny little half-smile, and Draco found himself smiling in return. He jounced Teddy lightly, rocked and smiled involuntarily down at the infant, wrapped in the seclusion of the cool, moonlit night. He said things in soothing tones, little whispered phrases spilling out of him – nonsense mostly, but certainly no fucking _baby-talk_.

And then the door creaked and Draco felt a wash of relief and – reluctance…? Relief, he told himself firmly, still unconsciously swaying from side to side, definitely relief. Nymphadora was here to take the infant off his hands, and Draco oddly, felt peaceful enough now that he might actually be able to go back to sleep, his nightmare images having faded to a background hum that couldn't touch him. He had to admit that holding the baby had at least distracted him.

"You've finally decided to give Teddy a cuddle, hmm?" came Hermione's voice, an underlying thread of amusement beneath her light, quiet tones, and Draco jumped half out of his skin.

"For Merlin's fucking sake, Hermione," he snapped, swinging around to glare at her, heart racing and feeling as though he'd been caught in something he shouldn't be doing. "Don't bloody do that! You nearly made me drop the fucking baby."

She was in long, loose pyjama trouser and a singlet, and her hair curled in wild, dark sheafs about her face, a smile curving her mouth. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." She walked over to him and Teddy, and stroked Teddy's cheek, tapped him on his small nose, and Teddy grinned a gummy grin again, and Draco felt his heart melt a little again, despite his efforts not to let the infant affect him. He held the baby a little tighter and kept his face tightly controlled, not allowing a wisp of a smile onto it

"Looks like somebody has some wind," Hermione said to Teddy in a cooing baby-voice, and Draco felt inexplicably sulky that Teddy hadn't actually been smiling at him, but had just had _wind_, of all things. He kept jiggling the baby slightly, eyes darting to Hermione's face. Her firewhiskey eyes were almost black in the dim light, her skin silver-stained by the moon, and she drifted her hand up his arm, ghosting along it and giving him tingling shivers.

"I thought you were asleep," he half-accused her, still feeling embarrassed at being caught rocking the baby and talking to him, and she shrugged. "I woke up and you were gone. I couldn't get back to sleep. So I came down and ran into Tonks, and she said you were out here on the porch with Teddy." She grinned, a quick flash of even white teeth her dentist parents would be proud of. "I hardly believed her."

"She basically threw the child at me. I didn't have much choice but take him," Draco grumbled, trying to glower down at Teddy and mostly failing, as the infant made a gurgling, happy sort of sound. "When's she coming back down?"

"She's not," Hermione said brightly, and Draco did a double take. "_What?_ But she _said_ –"

"And _I_ told her to go back to bed and try to get some sleep, and if Teddy gets grizzly, I'll bring him up," Hermione said decidedly, and then made a sickeningly cute face at Teddy. "Who's getting a lovely cuddle from his cousin Draco? Who is it? Is it our little Teddykins who's getting a cuddle from his cousin Draco?"

"Oh for Merlin's _bloody_ sake, Hermione," Draco sighed, irritated and resigned at once, rolling his eyes and glaring at her. She just smiled up at him, unbothered by his expression, and then leant against the porch railing, watching him with Teddy, a strange tenderness in those dark eyes of hers. He shifted uncomfortably under her steady, silent gaze, jiggling Teddy as the infant made a grizzle of protest, and soothing him back to burbling, happiness.

"You look…sweet…with him," Hermione said eventually in a small voice, smile still playing about her lips, and Draco stiffened. Frowned at her, feeling defensive and entirely uncomfortable with where the conversation was going. "How lovely – that's just what I _always _wanted to look like; _sweet_," he snarked acidly, bristling at the unsaid but clear implications.

"You do, Draco," she said and her eyes slid away from him, the faintest pink colouring her cheeks, the words drawn slowly out of her almost against her will. "You'd…make a very good father."

"Hermione…" he warned her, tight and strangled and not wanting to have this fucking discussion right now – not _ever_ if he could help it, and she kept her eyes on Teddy, avoiding his hard eyes. "_Hypothetically speaking_, of course," she added with a touch of pique, fooling neither of them, and Draco's jaw bunched up and he wanted to just walk away, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot, and Teddy was gurgling in his arms contentedly.

"Well that's all it'll ever be," he told her sharply, and a shadow passed over her face, and for once he couldn't tell what she was thinking, except that it wasn't good, whatever it was. He glanced down at Teddy, who was making another gassy grin. "Here – you take him. I've no bloody idea how one is supposed to wind a baby," he said and shoved Teddy at her. Hermione took the baby with familiar, comfortable ease, propping him up against her shoulder and rubbing his small back with short, firm strokes. She murmured to the infant as she patted and stroked his back, swaying on the spot, and Draco couldn't pull his eyes away.

She looked motherly and somehow _ripe_; a cloud of dark hair framed about her face, lips moving in whispers, slim hands soothing over Teddy's back and the swell of her breasts and hips and dip of her waist outlined well in her thin, clinging pyjamas. He realised, leaning against the porch railing, with his face ostensibly turned down to his feet, but eyes fixed upwards on Hermione and Teddy, that there was a _rightness_, a _contentment_ in watching her with a baby in her arms, that left him feeling disturbed and unsettled.

Draco supposed that his obligations as a pure blood to sire children had been more deeply ingrained in him than he had originally thought. With so much inter-marrying between the noble and pure blood houses, the lines were no longer as strong and healthy as they had once been, and families that once had five or six children were only producing one or two – like Draco's family. His mother and father had tried so many times for siblings for him, but – Draco was dimly aware – that his mother had suffered miscarriage after miscarriage, until eventually it would have been dangerous to try for anymore children. The old houses, he realised in a flash of clarity, really _were_ dying out – no wonder they were so threatened by the rising numbers of mixed bloods and Muggleborns – as the pure bloods' numbers swindled, the others' numbers were rising.

And so it had always been drilled into Draco by his mother – and father – that the duty of any pure blood was to have children. Children were life, children were the future, and children were the continuance of your house, name and traditions. Pure bloods valued their offspring immensely, for the most part, and Draco had always thought it unusual that, unlike his fellow pure bloods, he'd had little interest in marrying and producing children. Most pure bloods married straight out of Hogwarts, and had their first child – if they could – before the age of twenty. Draco had never liked that idea. But he stared at Hermione, with the light silvering her and Teddy lolling cosy against her shoulder, her warm, capable hands holding him safe, and he wondered if his disinterest had merely been because he hadn't found the right person. And now he had, too fucking late, too unsuitable, too…irony, he thought, frustration and self-directed anger for feeling this way seizing him.

"I'm going to bed," he said roughly, and Hermione glanced up at him, startled by his tone – nothing hidden in her face, just _her_, laid bare, and even though he was angry and suddenly itching with it beneath his skin, scratching to get out, he leaned down and kissed her mouth, his fingers dragging over her soft cheek. She made a surprised, wanting sort of whimper, and Draco's body tensed with a sudden consuming _desire_, for Teddy not to be there, to grab her, spin her around and rip her pyjama trousers down, and bury himself in her. Fuck her up against the wall, fingers interlocked, her face jammed against the wall and her pussy tight around his dick. Cum in her, as though he was trying to damn well knock her up – an impotent gesture given that she was on some Muggle pregnancy prevention tablet-things. But he could _pretend_ for a moment without any danger of what he suddenly wanted to happen actually happening, and Merlin, it would be fucking heaven.

She was driving him mad, Draco decided as he ripped himself away from her and stalked into the house, let the door rattle and bang shut behind him. Being with her, how he felt about her was making him want to do all these things he'd never fucking cared about in the least before, and it was driving him absolutely stark raving _mad_.

**# # # # # #**

**The Minutes Before**

Hermione stared at herself in the mirror. She was kitted out in the ancient Auror leathers that fit her as comfortably as a second skin now, mended from damage taken in previous skirmishes, the wards and charms placed upon them renewed and strengthened. Her hair was dragged back into a tight, practical French braid, and her wand was firmly in the holster at her hip, her face white and taut with nerves. She felt like she wanted to vomit on her boots, and stifled the sick feeling; she often felt like this before a mission, and invariably the feeling went away – eventually. Draco's arms slid around her waist, and she smiled weakly at him in the mirror. His hair was slicked roughly back the way he used to do it so long ago, only messier, and his eyes were hard and sharp – a knife blade in his Auror leathers, radiating a ruthless, deadly kind of intent.

"Ready?" he asked her quietly, ducking his head to brush his lips over her cheek, and she nodded minutely, feeling her heart thud-thud-thudding in her chest like it was desperately trying to beat its way through her ribs. God, she was so nervous.

"I suppose so," she told him lightly, twisting in his arms and taking a deep breath, her fingers curling around his wiry upper arms as though bracing herself, the leather rerebraces worn and soft beneath her touch. He nuzzled her whisper-soft by her ear and sent little jolting tingles through her, and then found her mouth and seized it with his, kissing her shockingly hard and fierce.

"You're scared," he said, grey eyes serious and searching on hers, and Hermione shrugged, holding his gaze although she wanted to drop her eyes from his and just cling to him for a moment. "A little," she said. "Aren't you?"

"No," he said plainly, and Hermione believed him – there was nothing on his face but cold determination now, although when he slid his hand down to cup her bum and yank her flush against him, she could feel the jut of his erection. But there was nothing behind his eyes, no flush of arousal to those pale cheeks, and his breathing was slow and even. But he was hard, and his hand slid down, kneading her bum, fingers exploring what he could through her leathers, reaching around to press and rub against her clit through them, and…

"You're – I – oh god…" She was breathless, suddenly dreadfully, desperately aroused, and Draco smirked at her, kissed her again, and his mouth was hot and slick slanting against hers, and his tongue teased lightly and sent shocks of wet want down into her core, made her knees go watery and weak and she swayed into him. His hand came up to lay over her cheek, and his thumb stroked small circles over her cheekbone as he kissed her, the leather of his fingerless Auror gloves rough and cracked on her skin. Her arms came up around his neck, and she went on tiptoes in her boots, pressing full against him and wiggling her hips, pushing herself against his trapped erection and eliciting a stifled whimper from his lips.

Draco backed her across the room, his movements quick and needy, pinning her shoulders to the wall and kissing her for a long, dizzying moment. Hermione melted and mewled and throbbed under Draco's skilful ministrations, and her fingers dragged at fistfuls of his slicked back hair, making an utter mess of it. She gasped in a shuddering, panting breath when he let her go finally and stepped back, eyeing her with smug satisfaction as he wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, and then ran his fingers roughly through his hair, trying to shove the messy strands back. Hermione felt hot and tingly all over, aching for more that she couldn't have right now, and Merlin damn Draco, the bastard, her knickers were bloody well wet now.

"We'll be fine, Hermione," he said firmly, those cold grey eyes fixed hard and serious on her face, and she took a deep breath and nodded sharply, checked her wand holster, and the straps and laces of her leathers, and the state of her hair, all with fluttering, nervous motions. Draco caught her hand, trapped it in his with the ease of a Seeker's quick reflexes. "This will be easy," he said slowly and precisely, his fingers curled all warm and thin around hers. "They're only Muggles. Not that I mean…you know…" he began to explain, looking half-exasperated, and Hermione smiled ruefully and nodded.

"I know what you mean, Draco." Her smile faded. "But I can't seem to shake the feeling that something's going to go horribly wrong."

It had clung to her all day; the creeping, slinking feeling crawling up her spine, digging its claws into her and whispering evil little fears in her ear. The mission should be easy – they _were_ just Muggles that they were going to be up against. And if all went as planned – and why shouldn't it? – the only one who would even know the Order was there was the Russian scientist in charge of the facility that they had to _imperio_ for the use of his security clearance, and _he'd_ be _obliviated _as soon as they were done with him. She shouldn't be so afraid, and she didn't know _why_ and that bothered her almost as much as the feeling itself.

"It'll be bloody simple, Hermione. We'll be disillusioned, and I doubt Muggle scientists and military personnel can do much against magic, even if they do see us, somehow. Merlin, I thought I was supposed to be the fucking pessimistic one out of the two 'f us," Draco said as he frowned at himself in the mirror, playing with his hair and trying and failing to slick it back into a semblance of order. "Do I look stupid?" he asked, an astoundingly normal question from out of nowhere, which staggered her momentarily and then made her grin to herself.

"You're going to be disillusioned, Draco. Who _cares_ if you look stupid? No one will know."

"_I_ will," he retorted and then grinned at her in the mirror, lopsided and careless, and gave up on his hair – mostly restored to order, but with a few strands flopping forward at his temples, and Hermione thought absently, that it actually looked rather nice. "Now," he continued briskly, adjusting the vambrace on his maimed arm, wincing as it dug into his stump. He struggled with it one-handed, and swore under his breath, before continuing, "Tell me that everything is going to go wonderfully, with that irritatingly optimistic smile of yours, Hermione, so that I can go back to being _pessimistic_ before the cheerfulness kills me."

She did as she was told; smiled at him as widely as possible, blindingly optimistic, crossing her tiny room and taking his maimed arm up in her two hands. "Everything is going to go wonderfully," she told him obediently as she tugged at the straps and buckles, nimbly adjusting the vambrace for him. "There – is that better then?" she asked, meaning both the vambrace and her attitude, and Draco nodded. Smiled.

"Yes, much," he said earnestly and kissed her lightly on the mouth. "Now come on then, hurry up – everyone will be waiting for us by now, and the sooner we get this mission done, the sooner we can get back here, and…finish what we started…" His expression and tone left no doubt as to exactly_ what_ he meant to finish, and Hermione flushed hot and her breath caught sharply, the state of her knickers got rather damper. She nodded wordlessly, and then took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and tried to focus on the mission ahead, tried to think positive thoughts about it.

Downstairs, Remus, Delia Tiptree, Jinx Truffle, Kiambang bin Tam, and Viktor Krum, were all waiting, along with a few other Order members. Delia and Jinx chatted quietly to Remus, who was holding Teddy, Tonks standing close beside him, Kiam was in tucked away in a corner with Kingsley, the two of them standing _very_ close together, and Viktor was looking very typically stolid, standing with Karkaroff who appeared to be giving him advice. Hermione tried to look unruffled and _not _like she'd just been thoroughly kissed as she hurried down the stairs, Draco following her at a more leisurely pace. She smiled around at everyone tightly, trying her best to be bright and positive.

"Where's Ron?" she asked and Harry, who was standing in the dining room doorway, jerked his thumb up the stairs. "Still up there. He went to say goodbye to Cho. I went up and knocked on the door a few minutes ago, and got told to _fuck off_, so…ah…they'll probably be five more minutes or so…"

"Well, that's utterly disgusting," Draco said matter-of-factly, hand just barely touching the small of Hermione's back, and Hermione glanced up behind her to see his face scrunch up in a grimace. Then he raised an eyebrow. "Why didn't you knock on _our_ door, Potter?"

"Experience," Harry said dryly, and Draco snorted at that.

"So you _can_ learn, then," he said with mock-surprise, and Harry rolled his eyes. "I've been known to, on the rare occasion, Malfoy," he shot back, and Hermione felt a little of her worry fade away into the background as the two boys began their good-natured bickering.

She leant back into the warm pressure of Draco's hand, and listened to him and Harry throw mock-insults back and forth in their odd banter, as they all waited patiently for Ron. And she felt far more positive. And then Ron came running down the stairs, and last minute goodbyes and good lucks and instructions were exchange, and they were disapparating with sharp cracks.

Hermione clung to Jinx Truffle's arm as the world swirled and her stomach lurched, and she tried not to vomit everywhere. The cold hit her like a wall, the wind whistling viciously, leaching the warmth from her body instantly, and Hermione struggled to remember the warming charm for a moment, hauling her wand out of its holster and waving it, mumbling the words under her breath. She stared around her, muscles relaxing as the warm seeped through her, stomach still churning horribly, eyes sweeping over Jinx and landing on Draco, who smiled tightly at her, wand in hand and looking as nauseated as she felt.

"I feel –" Hermione began shakily and then threw up violently on the muddy, slush-coated ground. There was a brief flash of embarrassment that she was vomiting in front of Draco, and then over the sound of her retching, she heard Draco following suit, and didn't feel quite so embarrassed. When Hermione finally emptied her stomach and straightened, Jinx was looking awfully green, but had managed to hold onto the contents of her stomach so far. Hermione muttered a few cleaning charms and tried to ignore the sour taste in her mouth, and then was hit by a headache that made her feel ill all over again, and like her head was going to explode. Or possibly _implode_. Jinx muttered a string of spells under her breath, and the nausea and headache began to slowly ebb to a just-barely-bearable level, thank _Merlin_.

"I've – I've never felt like _this_ after apparating before," Hermione said weakly, wobbling over to Draco, who unselfconsciously spat on the slushy ground, making a face and wiping the back of his mouth.

"The further you apparate, the worse the usual side-effects are," Jinx explained matter-of-factly. "With practice it gets easier to adjust, but it's never very pleasant. The remnants of the side-effects should wear off in an hour or so, though."

"Oh, _wonderful_. Why did no one think it important to mention to us that we'd being doing this mission while trying not to vomit on ourselves, and headaches so bad our vision is fucking blurring?" Draco got out in a choked voice, glaring daggers at Jinx.

"Your vision is blurring?" Jinx asked with a note of worry in her brisk voice, and Draco nodded and then groaned, clutching his head. Hermione steadied him on his feet, concern snaking through her, as Jinx hurried over and grabbed Draco's arm and telling him to look at her, diagnostic charms flowing from her wand.

"Blurring?" Jinx prompted, and Draco grunted faintly. "Mildly. It's – not so bad now. Just a rather…disconcerting doubling effect."

"Headache?"

"Fucking terrible," Draco said, and as Jinx examined him and cast further Healing charms, Hermione's eyes scanned the area of Russia they had apparated into. Trees dotted sparsely over a bleak, rolling landscape, a thin layer of melting, muddy snow coating the ground, and on the horizon, the grey concrete of ugly buildings jutting into the sky. In the mid-distance Hermione could make out Ron, Kiam and Viktor approaching from a copse of trees, Viktor staggering a little – he must have been hit hard by the long-distance apparating too – and further off in the distance, to her left, she could see Remus and Delia Tiptree nearing their position at a quick trot. She turned her attention back to Draco and Jinx.

"Will he be all right?"

"He'll be fine. You should start feeling much better shortly, Malfoy, but I'm afraid you probably won't be at your best for a good twelve hours or so." Jinx patted him gently on the shoulder. "Will you be able to manage the mission, or shall I take you back?"

"I'll be fine," Draco grated, straightening and visibly steeling himself.

"Don't say you can manage it if you can't, Malfoy. We don't need you here if you're just going to be a liability," Jinx warned, and Draco frowned at her, clenched his jaw and nodded very, very slightly, eyebrows scrunching together with pain as he did. "I can manage, Truffle. Even like this I can handle myself. I've felt much fucking worse. But if I'm not any better before we get to the facility, I'll let you send me back, if it'll make you feel better."

"Draco? Are you _sure_ you're going to be all right?" Hermione grabbed his attention and his arm, looking up at him, pale and ill-looking, forehead all furrowed up. He managed a fleeting, pained smile. "Really, Hermione. I'll be fine," he insisted shortly, and she didn't really believe him. That horrible, creeping sense that things were going to go wrong returned full force, and Hermione couldn't shake it this time. She didn't like this. She wanted Draco to go back to Godric's Hollow – Merlin, _she_ wanted to go back, except she had no good excuse to. But Draco – if he wasn't well, if he couldn't… She opened her mouth to question him again, more sternly this time.

"Well then," Jinx announced briskly before Hermione could say anything. "If you say you're all right, Malfoy, then let's go collect the others, and get moving. We've got a good five kilometre walk to the facility ahead of us, and we're losing daylight. Come on. No dawdling."

Hermione pressed her lips together tightly and frowned to herself, but there was nothing else for it; Draco wouldn't go back, and Hermione couldn't. So she set off after Truffle, sticking close to Draco who still seemed a bit unsteady on his feet on the slippery, muddy slush, watching him and her surrounds like a hawk, that horrible unease churning in her gut. She didn't have a good feeling about any of this.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **And next chapter, we have the Russian mission. It may take a while in coming, because I haven't figured out all the details of the mission plan etc yet, but it should be up within a fortnight at the latest. But you can always check the Facebook page for progress, and poke me with a virtual stick (here or there) to get me moving if it's taking too long, because feeling obligated to give you your fix is actually a _very _ powerful motivating factor :D

You may have noticed the little reference to the Hermione/Snape pairing – although Dramione is my favourite ship _now_, the first Harry Potter ship I set sail in was the romance of the Potions teacher and Miss Granger, so it was fun to slip in a reference.

And yes, Draco's a little bit clucky, so to speak, haha. I don't think it's out of character though, given that I personally believe there would be an enormous amount of pressure in the pureblood world to have children, and plenty of 'em, relatively young. I belong to the school of thought that believes after centuries of inbreeding, on average, purebloods aren't as genetically varied and healthy, are beginning to have more difficulty producing live offspring, and they're a minority of the wizarding population, so having children would be _very_ important. And now, too late and with the wrong person, Draco's starting to realise the appeal of what his mother has always drilled into his head as being so important.

I also had/implied a fair amount of conflict between Draco and Hermione in this chapter, because they're still finding their feet as a couple, and there are going to be misunderstandings, miscommunications, and general ups and downs as they find a pattern of relationship that suits them. I think they'll always be prone to arguing (the light, non-hurtful even if occasionally rather heated arguments that Hermione mentions she likes) but at the moment, their arguments have been slightly more vicious and hurtful, because everything is still so new, and there are still so many issues between them, and externally, and there's a _lot_ of stress, which doesn't help. To a certain extent though, the fact that they're arguing and not _hugely_ freaking out that they're going to break up/not work out, is a good sign, a sign of their commitment.

When I wrote that bit about Draco looking at the pamphlet on prosthetics as a way to sort of make an apology, I meant it to be really quite kind of sad/sweet/awww – did it work out that way?

**Please review and tell me :)**


	43. This Makes No Sense

**Author's Notes: **OMG! So many reviews! I love you all so, so much! I'm sorry I haven't replied to any of your wonderful reviews yet, but as the **amazing** speediness of this chapter update proves, I have been incredibly busy writing, so I hope you'll forgive me.Right, so…onwards to the Russian base mission. While I did, in fact, do a lot of Googling and Wiki-ing to try to get _some_ idea about chemical weapons, chemical weapons storage facilities, and so on, most of the detail about the layout of the facility is pulled out of my arse. Call it dramatic licence where you see mistakes, and be gentle with me when I get things horribly wrong, please :) **TWs for graphic violence**. I hope you _enjoy!_

**# # # # # #**

**This Makes No Sense**

_This air is too thick to breathe_

_So just drive_

_These eyes are too sick to see_

_Don't leave me behind_

_Something's swimming in my blood_

_Something's rotting in my brain_

_When I'm smothered by the flood_

_I can't recognise your face_

_I need to leave_

_[Fighting the Gravity, Blink 182]_

**# # # # # #**

The Russian facility was surrounded by a high, barbed wire-topped chain link fence, which had been simple enough for Remus to slice through with a cutting spell, and then seal roughly back together again. They were all disillusioned, creeping along bunched together, supposed to be holding onto each other so they didn't get lost, but people kept letting go, and whispers cut the air as they tried to find each other again. Hermione could only just barely make out peoples' shapes – shimmers distorting the air ever so slightly. Their presence would be obvious to wizards and witches who knew what to look for, but the bored looking guards standing around the fence perimeter were utterly blind to the distortions.

The facility itself was a large, sprawling series of ugly, squat concrete buildings that housed old chemical waste, munitions, and Merlin knew what else. It was ostensibly a facility for the storage and safe disposal of chemical weapons that would no longer be used, but beneath the surface, underground, were a network of concrete bunkers that had been turned into clandestine storage and research facilities. Dubois-Volkov's father had once worked in a facility just like this, many, many years ago, although he had worked at a bigger facility, which had manufactured mass amounts. But that was no longer done, and any chemical weapons research and manufacture was smaller scale now, and had to be very carefully hidden from other governments. Or so Kingsley, Remus and Kiam had discovered when they and the Aurors had been preparing for this mission.

They had, after painstaking investigation, found out who was one of the English-speaking scientists working at the facility, Yuri Romanov, and used the Imperius curse on him, giving him instructions to unlock the door to Building C at exactly 3:00pm on this day. They wanted to meddle with his mind as little as possible; meddling led to possible brain damage, especially with Muggles, so they hadn't ripped the passcodes from his mind. Besides, they needed his eye and thumbprint too, to open the doors, and if they used polyjuice and _replaced_ him, there was still the problem that none of them spoke Russian. So they were simply going to order Yuri to open the doors for them on their way through the facility to one of the rooms where the chemical weapons they wanted were stored. Then they were going to collect all that they needed – very, _very_ carefully because the compounds were often inherently unstable – and apparate directly out of the room, back to Madeleine Dubois-Volkov's makeshift laboratory.

As Draco had said, it should be a straightforward, simple mission, and yet it already _wasn't_, and Hermione wasn't happy about that at all. It gave her a very bad feeling. Draco and Viktor had both improved on the long march to the facility, but neither of them was completely back to normal, despite their assurances that they were okay. Hermione tried to focus on the moment, hanging onto Remus' invisible arm tightly, Ron – she thought it was Ron, at least – having a tight grip on _her _arm. The uniformed guards at the perimeter and patrolling the open grounds of the facility all had weapons slung over their shoulders – automatic rifles of some sort, it looked like to Hermione; she didn't know anything about guns, but whatever these ones were, they looked nasty. Several times their little train of people had to jerk to an abrupt halt to avoid walking into one of the patrolling guards, and Hermione's heart was rattling fast and frantic in her chest.

She wished it were over and done with, and they were safely back at the Godric's Hollow house. She still felt queasy – whether from fear or the lingering after-effects of the long-distance apparition she didn't know, but _Merlin_, it made it harder to concentrate, and keep control of her welling unease. She had to stay sharp, had to keep it together. This should be simple. She didn't feel like it would be, though, somehow. Her wand was out, held very tightly in her hand, which was clammy with fear sweat. And then they were at Building C, and as they approached the heavy steel door swung open, right on time, and a thin, scruffy looking man stuck his head out, looking around dazedly. Hermione stumbled along behind Remus, and they all slipped past the Imperiused scientist into the hallway he stood in, as he held the door open for them.

"Is everyone here?" Remus hissed, voice echoing in the cold, concrete hallway, and a chorus of whispers answered in assent, Hermione's voice shaking a little as she spoke. "Shut the door, please, Yuri," Remus told the scientist, who did so, a glazed bewilderment in his eyes as he looked for the source of the instructions, obviously trying to fight the Imperius and failing. Hermione wondered what it felt like, to be under the Imperius curse. She couldn't imagine what it must be like for part of yourself to be aware of the control exerted over you, and yet being unable to do anything about it. What it must be like to be trapped inside your own body and mind, someone else's puppet and unable to even communicate that fact. Unable to ask for help. It must be horrible, she thought with a shiver, and her treacherous mind reluctantly remembered that Draco had used the curse on Madame Rosemerta.

"Right, let's go. Yuri, take us to room 17C, please," Remus said quietly, still unfailingly polite, even with the man he had used an Unforgivable on. Yuri led the way down the hallway at a shamble, and the Order team followed behind him, still disillusioned.

"See. It's going fine," a voice murmured by Hermione's ear as they rounded a corner and paused in front of another heavy steel door with another electronic lock, and she jumped and stifle a shriek.

"Merlin, don't _do_ that, Draco. You scared me half to death," she whisper-yelled, pointlessly glaring at the distorted blur in the air beside her that was him. A hand found her shoulder, his wand jabbing into her arm as he gave her shoulder an apologetic squeeze. "And don't jinx things by saying how well they're going," she added, feeling stupid for saying it – Hermione Granger didn't believe in such silly superstitions. They started moving again, through the door and down some stairs, the air growing more chill and damp as they descended.

"Don't be stupid," Draco chided, hanging right behind her, his hand on her shoulder still, to keep track of her, _her_ free hand sticking out ahead of her, keeping a light touch on someone'sback – Viktor's, she thought. A little train of people, all following the shambling scientist down into the depths of the earth, and Hermione wondered nervously how deep the bunkers went. She wasn't claustrophobic, but then again, she didn't like the idea of being trapped like a rat beneath tons of earth, even if they could just apparate out. The Muggle part of her didn't understand that notion, and it was _scared_.

"I'm not being stupid, I'm – I'm…" she came to a speechless halt, all huffy and angry and unable to defend her unease with anything rational. "Just shut up and focus on the mission," she hissed sulkily, and concentrated on the cold concrete steps beneath her feet. The bunker was like a maze – they kept passing through heavy steel doors that Yuri had to open with a code, retinal scan, and thumbprint, which took up time. They passed other scientists, and armed guards, and Yuri exchanged greetings in Russian, smiled and laughed rather dazedly with his colleagues, nodded to the soldiers. Hermione's pulse was racing, and her fingers were cramping around her wand. She didn't know why infiltrating a Muggle base seemed worse than fighting Death Eaters, but something instinctive and irrational in her mind obviously didn't like the dissonant clash of the magical and Muggle worlds.

Every time guards and scientists passed by, Hermione and the other disillusioned Order members had to freeze – holding their breath, not moving a muscle until the people had passed by and gone out of earshot. They might not be able to _see_ through the disillusionment, but they would be able to _hear_ them, if they made any noise. And if they were spotted, then they would have to stun and _obliviate_ whoever had discovered them, and that sort of thing took time, and was prone to mistakes, unless you were skilled at _obliviation_. The art was opposite to what you'd expect – _obliviations_ that precisely removed small chunks of memories were _far_ more difficult to do correctly than _obliviations _that removed great swathes of memory, and they didn't want to run the risk of adversely affecting innocent Muggles' brains.

"How close are we?" a voice that sounded like Truffle's asked, and Remus repeated the question to Yuri.

"Down end of the hall, go through door, down stairs, twenty metres further, door on left," Yuri said quietly in his thick accent, and Hermione's muscles tensed further as adrenaline poured through her. They were nearly there. And once they were, it was a matter of shutting themselves in, packing up what they needed at a brisk but careful pace, and lifting the Imperius, _obliviating_ Yuri, and apparating away, leaving Yuri to go about his life as normal again. Hermione was impatient to get it done and wanted to _run_ to the room, but was stuck trailing along with everyone behind Yuri, who seemed determined to crawl along at a snail's pace.

She went over the information Dubois-Volkov had given them, on what to expect at the facility, and how to identify the different agents correctly, in case they couldn't make sense of the Russian labelling, or it was labelled in code. The Kolokol-1 that they wanted would be stored in aerosol form, suspended in small glass-lined metal cylinders, and must _not _be confused with sarin gas, which was a fatal nerve agent, also stored in aerosol form, and which the facility had in short-term storage at the moment in the same room, according to Yuri. There were also going to be stores of mustard gas, chlorine gas, cyanogen chloride, or CK, hydrogen cyanide, and phosgene. All of them could be fatal, but the likelihood of anything actually happening was very low – everything was very carefully stored; safety being of paramount importance to the people working in the facility.

Besides, if anything happened it would only take a split-second to cast a bubblehead charm, Hermione told herself as the door to the stairs swung open, and she went down close behind Viktor, Draco following her silently as a cat, the only indication of his presence the feel of his hand resting light and comforting on her shoulder. They would be fine, she told herself, stomach cramping with queasiness and fear, and heartbeat irrationally refusing to slow. Yuri stopped in front of a door and went through the procedure to access it, and then pushed it open with no little effort, grunting as he did so. Hermione followed the others into a room lit by a naked fluorescent bulb, and Kiam shut the door behind them, and one by one they all released their disillusionment charms and holstered their wands with sighs of relief.

The room was relatively large, and filled with crates and shelves of metal and glass canisters, all neatly labelled in Russian, and Hermione's eyes widened at the sight of it all. They were lucky they had Yuri – the scientist could tell them which canisters held the Kolokol-1, and save them a lot of time trying to figure it out themselves.

"Right," Remus said, "Yuri. Where are the stocks of Kolokol-1?"

And then a flash of green light lit the air and Hermione spun to see Yuri sway, eyes wide and mouth ajar, and then topple like a tree. She choked on a scream and stumbled back into a warm body behind her, her eyes on Kiam, who stood in front of the door with his wand pointed at them all. He smiled charmingly around at them, and Hermione shuffled back, only to have him shift his wand to aim at her threateningly. She froze, breath catching in her throat, hearing Draco make a sharp, angry sound.

"I would advise you all not to move. You in particular, Miss Granger," he said, still smiling that charming, utterly likable smile, and Hermione's lips quivered, her hand shifted slowly away from her wand holster.

"Hands up, all of you."

"Kiam, what's going on?" Remus asked, his tone horribly flat and cold and _dangerous_, and Kiam shrugged, wand still pointed directly at Hermione. She saw from the corner of her eye, Draco jerk a step forward and Kiam grinned viciously at him.

"Uh, uh, uh, Malfoy. You stay right where you are, or Miss Granger is going to die before you can do anything about it."

"Kiam. _What in Merlin's name is going on?_" Remus demanded again, _his_ hand drifting towards his wand, and then the Order team all spun around as someone cleared their throat right behind them. There were four witches and four wizards – who must have been disillusioned – surrounding them, their wands pointed at the Order team, and Hermione clamped her lips down on a whimper. She had _known_ – she had _known _something was going to go wrong. She swore in her head, a string of horrible wizarding words she'd picked up from Draco, her eyes darting over the witches and wizards that surrounded them.

No, she thought furiously. There would be no way in hell that they could successfully take control of the situation without some of them dying. There was nothing they could do yet. They couldn't coordinate an attack, anyway, and unless they all attacked at once, _none_ of them might survive it. They would have to bide their time, for now, she realised reluctantly.

"What are you _doing_, Kiam?" Remus pleaded, his eyes darting over the armed witches and wizards that surrounded them, and unfortunately outnumbered them. _Kiam_, of all people, Hermione thought with frantic bewilderment, mind racing and none of this making any logical sense. He and Kingsley were in _love_ for god's sake, he was a neutral party, and he certainly wasn't a Death Eater – why was he _doing_ this? Hermione supposed that Kiam could be under the effects of an Imperius, but it just didn't make any sense. If Voldemort had control of someone who knew they were at Godric's, and knewhow to get into it, why would he not have launched an all-out attack on Godric's Hollow ages ago?

But all of this was academic anyway. It didn't matter _why_, only that this was the situation, and they had to deal with it somehow. She held her hands up above her head when Kiam ordered it again, and saw that everyone else was reluctantly following suit. Draco's glare could burn through steel, and Ron was beet-red with rage, and they both hesitated, but when Kiam wiggled his wand toward Hermione again, they both did as they were told.

"_Penduduk Di Luar_ is _not_ going to fight and die on the losing side of a war that _does not concern us_. We did _not_ want to be involved in this war, but then Kingsley came to see me and dragged us into it just by _associating_ with us. That he came to meet with us is enough to mark us for death in Voldemort's eyes. So, we plan to deliver you to Voldemort, in exchange for his word to leave us be, and vice versa," Kiam said briefly, his faintly accented voice hard and dispassionate. "_Accio_ the Order member's wands," he added with sharp force, and Hermione couldn't hold back the helpless, hopeless moan that slipped out as her wand tore out of her holster and flew to Kiam's hands, along with the rest of their wands.

"Kiam, please. You don't have to do this," Remus said desperately, and Kiam ignored him blithely, ordering his people to watch the Order members closely and then holstering his wand, taking theirs one at a time, and…_snapping them_. Hermione's stomach lurched sickly at the abhorrence, the _wrongness_ of that, and Ron yelled something wordless and incoherent and Remus shouted a furious, horrified _no!_, and Draco took advantage of the distractions to grab Hermione's hand and pull her to him, screening her from Kiam's people with his body, and then Tiptree hurled herself forward at Kiam, and one of his people shouted, "_Avada Kedavra!_" And Tiptree fell. Dead. Gone. It all had happened in a matter of sparse, short seconds and Hermione could only stare with wide, terrified eyes as Delia toppled to the ground, face slack and eyes empty. Her breath came in great heaving, panicked gasps, and she clung to Draco's arm, raging with furious impotence, and she could feel the muscles rippling under his skin as he held himself back from going for _his_ wand.

Tiptree was an object lesson, Hermione thought with bitter anger that made her mind suddenly perfectly clear and sharp. If they fought, they would be killed. She clenched her jaw and thought about being delivered to Voldemort. About being tortured and held ransom or killed, and of what that would do to Harry. Thought of her parents, with no memory that they had a daughter to mourn for when she died. Of Teddy, growing up without a father, and Tonks grieving for Remus and rasing her son alone. Of Cho, left without Ron such a short time before their wedding, and Draco…well, at least they would be together, Hermione thought with bitter humour, fingers digging hard into his arm, and he looked down at her, a world of anger and fear – for her, not him, she knew instinctively – in that hard silver-grey stare.

And then Ron, stupid, brave, _idiotic_ Ron threw himself – not at Kiam and his wand – but at one of the members of _Penduduk Di Luar _that surrounded them. It was probably the best thing he could have done, if he was going to attack – they hadn't been expecting _that_, and Ron tackled the witch and managed to wrench her wand away, aiming wildly in Kiam's general direction and people scattered, crashing to the ground for cover as Ron shouted, "_Reducto!_" and missed Kiam, hitting a stack of crates by the door, and canisters exploded everywhere, and an alarm started wailing loud enough that it felt as though Hermione's skull was splitting open.

Shit. _The gas_. Shit. It was all she could think at first, the breath knocked right out of her from the impact of Draco knocking her to the ground.

She was flat on the ground, cheek to the cold concrete, and her wand had fallen unbroken from Kiam's hand as he'd dived to the side to avoid Ron's spell, and it was right _there._ Just a metre away – she could see it right _there. _She was half under Draco, and Ron was yelling spells with frantic speed, and then Remus' voice joined Ron's, both screaming spells and the alarms wailing, and someone sobbing. Hermione scrambled out from under Draco and slapped her hand over her wand, wobbly with overwhelming relief as she closed her hand around it. Swiftly she cast a bubblehead charm on herself – she could hear the hissing of gas over the screams and shouted spells, and clean air was the most important thing – and then spun around, looking for Draco. He was right there behind her, eyes fierce and glazed.

"Go!" he yelled at her, pointing at cover and shoving at her hard and Hermione tried to say something about him needing a bubblehead charm, but he was shoving at her, and she couldn't think clearly, and then a spell struck right by her head and she screamed and jerked away, skittering fast on all fours backwards towards a stack of crates. She saw Draco scrambling for one of the other wands Kiam had dropped, and hoped to Merlin that he would be fast enough, that he wouldn't be hit, that he would be okay. That he'd think of a bubblehead charm. A curse struck the concrete by Hermione's hand as she crawled for cover, and shards of concrete went flying up, slivers embedding themselves in her face, neck, and arms and she cried out and moved faster, feeling strangely weak, confused. But she made it behind the crates, alive, for now at least.

Everything was chaos and she was dizzy, the room was swirling around her, her stomach roiling sickly, and Hermione wondered vaguely what they were all inhaling, and how _much_ she'd inhaled before she'd cast the bubblehead charm, and if it was enough to kill her. She pressed her back hard against the crates as if that would steady the room and settle her stomach, and tried to catch her breath, but she couldn't seem to drag in any air. She couldn't seem to concentrate, and felt like nothing more than dissolving into helpless, confused tears, but instead she made her eyes focus, poked her head around the crate and aimed a _stupefy _at one of Kiam's people. He toppled, his bubblehead charm dissipating and Hermione felt brief guilt that her _stupefy_ was probably going to end up being fatal for the wizard. But they had murdered the Russian scientist, Yuri, even though he wasn't any danger to them whatsoever, and they'd murdered Delia Tiptree without a second's hesitation.

She couldn't see Draco, and terror seethed in her as she tried to organise her thoughts and stay focused, coherent, but then she heard his voice over the wail of the alarms, and relief shot through her white-hot.

"_Avada kedavra!_" he was yelling and Hermione's gut lurched. She hated the sound of the Killing Curse. _Hated_ it. What it meant for the enemy, and for the caster. And Draco didn't sound good, either, from what she could make out. There was a slur to his voice, a wobbling, dragging, sound, and Hermione whimpered to herself, sticking her head out from behind the crates again and casting another stupefy, and missing, her arm feeling funny, her eyes not focusing. She pressed her face against the corner of the crate, half her head sticking out as she tried to pull herself together, watching the fight with dazed eyes. One of Kiam's people cast a _Repulso_ that missed Ron, who it had been aimed for, and struck a shelving unit of canisters behind him, and they went flying across the room, breaking open and more gas puffed into the air.

Hermione moaned to herself in horror – Ron didn't have a bubblehead charm cast and was swaying on his feet, and Remus was down, Viktor was down, Truffle was…her eyes swept the room – Truffle was hiding behind a large steel container, a bubblehead charm up but wandless, and Draco was – oh thank _Merlin_ – Draco was crouched beside her, with a bubblehead up as well, and a wand in hand. Kiam was near the door still, hiding behind a shelving unit with a bubblehead up, and two of his people were still alive, bubbleheads in effect also. Hermione shook her head, trying to make her brain work, but whatever she'd breathed was making it hard for her mind and body to do what it was supposed to, and the wailing alarms didn't help her think. She managed a _stupefy_ but missed Kiam by a hair, and then threw up on the floor.

Hermione felt awful. Awful. So confused. She…her skin was starting to itch, and…her mind wasn't working… Couldn't breathe… She flung herself awkwardly away as Kiam stepped out from cover, directly in front of the door, and cast the Killing Curse, a stumble to his steps. And then the door burst open and a second later Kiam's head exploded in a shower of red and…and…Hermione vomited again and her ears rang as the echoes of the deafening burst of gunfire resounded off the walls of the concrete room. Angry shouting demands and panicked cries were rattled out in Russian that Hermione couldn't understand a word of, and a small group of soldiers burst into the room in chemical hazard suits, covered from head to toe, gas masks hiding their faces and rifles up at the ready, stepping over Kiam's mostly-headless body.

The three Muggle soldiers stared around in confusion at the room – the destruction wreaked, gas leaking from its canisters, and people crouched around holding little wooden sticks, impossible bubbles around their heads. Hermione giggled dizzily to herself, imagining exactly how shocked the soldiers must be right now, snorting and laughing weakly, and then pulled herself together enough to think of something to do before she got her head shot off too.

"_Accio_ gun!" she yelled, waving her wand and bumbling the words out, tongue feeling thick and sluggish in her mouth and she suddenly had the irrational desire to cut it out and fear swamped her, and she threw up again as a rifle came flying at her, away from its owner, slamming into her shoulder and falling to the ground with a clatter. She was losing it, she realised. Losing it. Couldn't focus to cast spells properly. Couldn't think. Was probably dying. God. Merlin. The soldier she'd ripped the gun away from screamed something in Russian and stumbled back, pulling a pistol and _shooting at her_ and she flung herself flat, and a searing pain burnt over the top of her scalp as she ducked, and she nearly wet herself with terror. If she'd been just a little slower, or the soldier had been less discombobulated by the sudden whizzing away of his rifle, she would be _dead_.

"_Accio_ gun!" Draco was yelling, and Hermione looked up to see him furious and shaking with it, utterly gone behind the eyes, nothing there but anger. The pistol flew into his hand, and one of the two remaining armed soldiers shot at him with his rifle, a short ear-burstingly loud spray that went wild and nearly hit his own people. The last soldier batted the man's weapon down, swearing at him harshly, but Hermione didn't pay much attention to _that. _She was focused on Draco, and her heart stopped as he went stumbling back, an expression of indignant, pained surprise on his face. She thought maybe she screamed, but if she did it wasn't loud enough to hear over the wailing sirens. Draco looked down at himself, still almost _surprised_, and there was blood oozing from his shoulder, and _oh god _his _chest_, and terror wrapped cold fingers around Hermione's spine.

The soldiers were yelling and gesticulating with their weapons, and Hermione tried to _stupefy _one but missed again, her hands trembling too much, and Truffle, she saw, was going after the wand that Ron had taken from the_ Penduduk Di Luar _member. Draco, for his part, glared dazedly at the soldier who had shot him, pulled the pistol up one-handed – holding it and his wand clumsily together – and pulled the trigger. The gunshot was shockingly loud again, a deafening crack, and Draco's arm jerked up with recoil – and in these close quarters it was hard to miss altogether, and one of the soldiers went stumbling back, clutching his belly and dropping to the ground. Draco stared at the soldier with wide, almost-frightened grey eyes, face all twisted up with the pain of his own wounds and shock at the viciousness and power of the Muggle weapon. And then he lifted the gun again.

"Move! _Move!_" he screamed at the two unharmed soldiers, waving the gun toward the door in a clear directive. "Get the _fuck _out!"

Hermione realised what he was doing foggily, as though she was watching it unfold from a very great distance. It was smart, she thought almost absently. A gun was something that the soldiers understood as threatening, unlike a wand, which to a Muggle was just a little stick, of course. She blinked, vision blurring and head swimming, and threw up yet again – a weak spatter of bile that made her throat and eyes and nose burn, and her mouth taste utterly foul. She stumbled to her feet, pointing her wand at Kiam's two remaining men, a clear threat in her eyes. If they moved, she would – well, she probably wouldn't _kill_ them, but Truffle might, and she was up with her wand aimed at the pair of them too.

"Get out!" Draco yelled again, and fired – unable to aim properly shooting one-handed, but the bullet winged one of the soldier's arms and they stumbled back. And as soon as they were past the threshold, Draco lurched forward and planted his shoulder against the door, shoving it shut and Hermione hurried to help, pushing against the heavy thing, her breath rasping in her ears, and Draco panting weakly next to her, both of them staggering on their feet from whatever they'd inhaled that Ron, Remus and Viktor were _still_ breathing, Hermione realised with guilty, horrified shock. The door clicked shut and Hermione reached past Draco and mashed the keypad, hoping that would lock it, and then remembering belatedly she had her wand, and cast several locking charms.

She stumbled back from the door, clutching at Draco half-blindly, frantic with worry. "Oh my god, oh Merlin – _Draco_, you've – you've been _shot_. Shit, are – are you all _right?_" There was blood staining his leathers and seeping in runnels down his arm, dripping onto the floor by his feet, and he was white as a sheet and his skin looked faintly blue-tinged. That _couldn't_ be good.

"I'll –" He coughed hackingly and spat a terrifying amount of blood onto the concrete. "I'll live," he finished and grinned wretchedly, blood staining his teeth red and making Hermione feel ill.

"Bullshit you're all right. We none of us are all right, you're just one worse having been _shot_ as well," Truffle snapped out, as wobbly on her feet as Hermione and Draco, weaving over to their unconscious team mates and casting bubbleheads on them. Hermione held her wand on the two _Penduduk Di Luar_ members, while Draco stood there slumped against the door and breathed shallowly through clenched teeth, clinging onto the gun and his wand and watching them too, his maimed arm hanging limp – it was that shoulder that had been shot – and blood spattering on the concrete by his feet.

"What do we do?" Hermione asked, looking to Truffle for instructions, and the Auror shrugged. "Get the damned Kolokol-1. I'm not having Tiptree die for _nothing_," she answered, and then jerked her head at Kiam's two men. "What do we do about _them?_"

Hermione stared at the two of them blankly, mind not working. "I guess…I guess we should…_stupefy _them…?" she offered vaguely, at a complete and utter loss. The two men still had wands though, and now they held them pointed at Truffle and Hermione. A good old-fashioned standoff, Hermione thought hysterically.

"We can't let you –" the one with his wand aimed on Hermione began fiercely, wobbling on his feet, as sick looking as the rest of them but still _dangerous_, and then a gunshot went off and Hermione shrieked in startled terror, and the man dropped like a stone, his eye a ruined mess and his mouth slackly agape.

"_Diffindo,_" Truffle snarled and slashed her wand, and the _Penduduk Di Luar _ member who had his wand trained on her clutched at his throat as the blood pumped out from the gaping slit Truffle had opened up, and Hermione bent and retched and retched; nothing left to actually bring up. Merlin, this was awful. This was _awful_. She swung around and stared stupidly at Draco, who was slumped against the door and looking at the gun with curious eyes, examining it closely, his gaze flicking between it and the man he'd just killed.

"Well, _these_ are very interesting," he mused in a strangled, breathless voice, and Hermione's face contorted into an involuntary expression of revulsion as she stared at him. He'd gone into that cold, ruthless headspace again, that place he seemed to go when he thought he needed to kill, and as always, it left her feeling like she didn't know him at all. Like he was Malfoy the Death Eater, only fighting on her side. But he wasn't _Draco_, not her Draco, not at all. Except he _was_. She clamped a hand over her stomach as it threatened to start revolting on her again; whether thanks to the carnage, or whatever poison she'd inhaled, she didn't know and didn't really care. And then Draco was looking at her, his gaze boring into her.

"He was going to kill you," he said almost pleadingly, seeing her emotions – her revulsion and her horror – written all over her, and she nodded slowly, head feeling like a two tone weight atop her shoulders.

"Yes. I suppose so," she said dreamily, feeling like she was speaking down a long, dark tunnel, vision spotting and breath increasingly hard to catch and he just kept staring at her, like he'd zoned out. He looked like he was dead on his feet.

"You two! Snap out of it and find the Merlin-damned Kolokol-1!" Truffle interrupted sharply, already looking hurriedly about the half-destroyed room. Hermione said, however, that she thought they should get back to Godric's and get medical attention for the others, and a brief, half-confused argument ended with the decision that now Hermione and Draco had been in the room, they could apparate directly _back _to it. So, Hermione and Draco would disapparate to Godric's with Viktor, Remus and Ron in tow, while Truffle kept looking for the Kolokol-1, and then Hermione should immediately apparate back with more Order members.

"But _not_ Kingsley," Truffle snapped, sparing a brief, hard glance for Kiam's corpse, and Hermione remembered that yes, Kiam had betrayed them, and nodded jerkily. Everything seemed very vague. "All right."

Truffle dragged Remus over to Ron, and Hermione crouched down and took each of their hands, held on tightly, and stared up at Draco, who had painfully limped to Viktor's side. "You won't splinch yourself, will you?" she asked him, frightened, and he grinned at her.

"Well I won't be trying to, Hermione. But I doubt I'll have much say over it."

"_Don't joke_," she half-snarled and then shut her eyes and pictured the foyer of Godric's, and tried to summon the familiar, sickening twisting sensation. Nothing happened. She tried again, and again, crouching there with her muscles aching and feeling like she wanted to keel over, and _nothing happened_. She opened her eyes, and looked up to meet Draco's faintly amused gaze.

"It's not working," she said with an edge of panic encroaching on her voice, and Draco nodded and dropped Viktor's arm, struggled to his feet. "No, it's not," he said, grim and pale, and Hermione felt tears prickle behind her eyes. Truffle looked around and then glared at the pair of them.

"The _bastards_ must have put up anti-apparition wards. Damn him, why the _fuck_ did he think snatching us would make Voldemort leave him alive. Fuck, he wasted _everything_ for _this_." Truffle flapped a hand at his body, sighed, and rubbed her eyes. "Well, best start looking for the Kolokol-1 then. No time to waste," she ordered Hermione and Draco, and turned back to her work.

"How on earth are we supposed to get out of here?" Hermione asked, on the verge of just collapsing in a heap, but making herself go over to the shelves and start looking at labels, trying to find what Dubois-Volkov had said would be the Kolokol-1. No one answered; just a grim silence, and Hermione didn't push the issue. She shoved canisters and sealed containers aside, fingers fumbling and her breathing dragging shallowly in her lungs, unable to get a proper breath in.

"What do you think we – we breathed?" Hermione asked as she read the labels with blurring eyes – unable to actually read the Russian writing, but vaguely recognising what Dubois-Volkov had shown them; the different chemical compounds, written in her father's native tongue.

"Don't know. Guess we'll find out if it's fatal or not soon enough though," Truffle said with black humour, and Draco snorted weak laughter and winced as pain rippled through him. And then the soldier he'd shot groaned weakly and scrabbled at the floor. Hermione shrank inside – she knew what was coming and she didn't want to have to see it. But Draco limped over to the man and pointed his newly acquired pistol down at…

"Draco! No, _don't_ –" Her hands clapped up to cover her ears and she flinched as the shot went off, Draco stumbling a step back from the recoil, and looking down at the dead man with curious, sickened eyes. Hermione's gaze unwillingly followed his, and she jerked her head away and squeezed her eyes shut as she saw the wreckage the point-blank shot had caused to the soldier's gasmask, and beneath that, his head. He was just a Muggle. Just an ordinary Muggle doing his job. Hermione whimpered, hand over her mouth, feeling like they were the bad guys, they were the evil ones, they were…

"Muggles sometimes think of the most _fascinating _thi–" Draco began in an odd, distant tone, staring at the soldier, and Hermione's head snapped around, eyes burning into him. "_Don't_," she snarled, just one word but filled with rage, because she _hated_ that admiration in his voice. _Despised_ it. She struggled to suck in a breath. "Just _don't_," she said again, and then turned back to the canisters, looking for the Kolokol-1 with shaking fingers and blurring eyes, the admiration in Draco's voice, the naked curiosity on his face at the damage the gun had caused echoing _over_ and _over_ in her head. She just wanted to go _home_, she thought sickly, and stifled a sob behind one hand, fingers crushing her lips too-hard against her teeth and chin trembling with trapped sobs.

**# # # # # #**

They'd found the canisters of Kolokol-1, which Truffle was carrying in a bag with an undetectable extension charm on it, managed to wake up Weasley, and had taken Remus' wand for him to use. They could hear muffled thuds and voices as the soldiers tried to get the door open, but Hermione's locking charms held, of course. They just had to get out of the base, past the anti-apparition wards, and they would be home free, Draco thought, blinking hard and swaying on his feet, feeling light-headed and sick, everything confused and his body wobbly and weak. He didn't know if it was the blood loss, or the gases they'd inhaled, but he was barely staying upright, and the others weren't much better. Merlin, this had been a fucking mess; the damned _Penduduk Di Luar_ bastard turning on them to try to save his fucking skin, and none of them could have planned for it, none of them could have reasonably seen it coming. The man had seemed utterly bloody genuine. Draco took some small comfort in the fact that Kiam lay dead on the floor, head blown off. Served him fucking right.

"We ready?" Truffle asked, looking fucking terrible, her dark hair making her face seem even paler, like a bloody ghost, a faint blue tinge to her skin, breath coming in ragged gasps. Draco nodded, having enough trouble breathing himself that he wasn't going to spare the air needed to speak, and Hermione and Weasley nodded their assent too – Weasley hanging onto Hermione for grim death, the same blue-tinged white as the rest of them, his eyes glazed over. Truffle nodded back, and disillusioned Lupin and Krum's bodies, flicked her wand so that they were levitating, invisible, a couple of feet above the ground. Truffle's mouth flattened and her eyes went dark and narrow as she concentrated, trying to hold the spell – everything seemed so _difficult_ with their minds disoriented by the bloody gases.

"Let's go, then," she gritted out, disillusioning herself, and Weasley followed suit a moment later. Draco caught Hermione's eyes, and for a second they just stared at each other, and he wanted to stumble to her and kiss her, just once more, in case… But then she smiled faintly at him, trying to be reassuring and it didn't _work_ because she looked like a walking corpse, and her lips were blue, and her eyes deep hollows and dazed, and her hair was matted with blood where she'd been shot, and she could barely stay on her damned feet, let alone keep _Weasley_ upright too… And then she tapped her wand on top of her head and disappeared and Draco did the same. The Muggle weapon – the _gun_ – was shoved at the back of his belt, heavy and hard-edged against his back, and it was oddly comforting there. Hermione had glared daggers at him when he'd kept hold of the weapon, but it had come in very fucking useful, and so he was bloody well taking it with him.

He'd never seen a _gun_ before – he'd read mention of them in the fictional Muggle books of Hermione's that he'd read, so he'd known basically how they were supposed to work, and what they were supposed to do, but that hadn't prepared him for the brutal reality of them. They were vicious, primitive weapons, guns, and horrifically efficient, as Draco could feel very clearly himself, his wounds sending bolts of agony radiating through him. No magical talent needed – obviously – Draco thought, as Hermione undid the locking charms on the door and they all backed off as they'd agreed to, to let the soldiers come bursting in. Just point and pull the trigger, and _bam_.

Draco wondered how useful the weapons might be against the Death Eaters – the bullets could of course be deflected by a shield charm, but it was possible the enemy would not realise what the guns were, and be ignorant enough that they didn't raise shield charms. Also, the bullets appeared to travel very fast, faster than spells, Draco thought as he lurched further back, holding in whimpers of pain at the movement as armed soldiers charged into the room in their strange white full-body suits and black gas masks. A wizard might not be able to raise a shield charm in time to block the bullet.

It would be difficult to convince the Order to use Muggle guns though. They, Draco anticipated as he tried to lurch _quietly_ through the door having agreed to take point in their escape, would probably not consider using guns to be a good idea. It had taken a while to convince them to use the Kolokol-1, and flashbang grenades, and that had only been because get the horcrux was so important to Voldemort's destruction. They would probably balk at the idea of shooting the Death Eaters as part of general warfare – never mind that they used fatal spells and curses on them; that didn't count somehow. Draco had seen the same thing in Hermione's face; the horror that he had used a gun on the soldiers, and the _Penduduk Di Luar _member. Somehow it had been worse to her than a curse that had a similar effect. Draco suspected in _her_ case it was an instinctive reaction, retained from her childhood amongst Muggles. Although, for the rest of the Order – if they didn't like the idea of using guns, that would probably mostly be thanks to an aversion to change, and a general uneasiness with Muggle technology.

Draco stumbled down the hallway, hugging the wall, as every so often a soldier in hazmat gear came running past. Confusion was erupting all around them, shouts in Russian – dismay, anger, fear – the emotions clear even if he couldn't figure out the damned words. His chest was on fire, and his shoulder was a similar agony, and blood was dripping on the floor, leaving a trail that – if the soldiers were calm enough to pay close attention to their surrounds – they would be able to see. He couldn't risk calling out to see if Hermione, Weasley, Truffle, and her two unconscious bodies were still behind him, so he just kept going, struggling up the stairs, keeping his pain tightly behind gritted teeth, trying not to make a sound. Through the doors, having to wait now and then for one of the soldiers or scientists to open them, but the base was in chaos and mostly all the doors were wide open, security apparently thrown to the bloody wind in the Muggles' confused panic.

It felt like hours, even though it was only about ten minutes or so. The long, long walk; staggering step after agonising step, unable to _breathe_, clinging onto the walls, slowly bleeding out, no idea of whether Hermione – fuck the others, he only cared about _her_ – was still behind him. _Clawing_ his fucking way through the maze of corridors, not knowing whether he was going the right way anymore, just moving, moving because the only other option was to give up and collapse and probably die in the corridor, right there. Draco clenched his jaw and stumbled on, his head swimming and his lungs screaming for air because he couldn't get _enough_, and the pain ripping through him, blurring what coherent thoughts he had left to him.

And then he saw it – the light of the dying afternoon sun, streaming in through an open door. His eyes widened and his straining heart beat faster in his chest, his whole body vibrated with hope and relief, strength renewed by the sight. He staggered for the door, grabbing at the walls to steady himself, and then it was the slushy, muddy earth, nothing to hold onto to steady himself, and he fell twice, _dragging_ himself up again and nearly crying with the pain and frustration and confusion of it all. He made for the spot they'd came in, able to make it out by the scrubby bush growing up against the chain link fence, and fell on his hands and knees by it, mud splattering over him. And then something warm stumbled into him and fell on him, and he choked on nothing as the breath whooshed out of him, his cheek flattened against the icy mud.

"Off – off me," he gasped and heard Weasley's familiar voice. "Sor – sorry, Malfoy," and then the weight was blessedly gone. He thought he should say something snarky in return, but all that came out was a wheezing, "Hermione? _Hermione?_"

"Here," she choked and then he saw the chain links in the fence being separated, and a cold muddy-wet hand patted blindly and roughly at his invisible cheek and nose. "Draco, 's that you?"

"Uh huh. 'S me. Thank _fucking_ Merlin, thought you…" He trailed off, not finishing the sentence. He'd half-feared that she was still back in the facility, trapped with Weasley, slowly dying from whatever they'd breathed in. He'd refused to let himself believe it – believe that she would give up, but he'd been so fucking _afraid_.

"Truffle?" he grated out next, and heard the Auror make a sound of assent. "Still got Krum and Lupin?" he asked, and she gasped a breathless _yeah_, and then Hermione had cut through the fence, opening a hole big enough to crawl through. The fence shivered and shook as – Draco presumed – she scrambled through, and he hoped to Merlin that the guards were too busy to notice in the commotion.

"Draco, you next," she said and he went through on his elbows, his shoulder and chest screaming blue bloody murder at him, and then he turned and he and Hermione blindly pulled an invisible Weasley through. With Truffle pushing and the three of them hauling, they managed to drag Krum and Lupin's inert bodies through next, with a lot of breathless swearing and grunts of effort, and then Truffle was through, and sealing up the fence again. They crawled a short distance away, the four of them managing to haul Lupin and Krum with them, and then ground to a halt under a stunted, gnarled tree about fifty metres from the fence.

"Still got the bag?" Draco asked, collapsing on his back in the freezing mud and dragging in heaving, unsatisfying gasps of air.

"Yeah, I've got it," Truffle answered. "Shall – shall we try apparating now? I imagine we're past the wards."

"I'm fucking liable to splinch myself," Draco muttered.

"Don't have much choice, I'm afraid, 'less you want to stay here," Truffle answered bluntly. "I'll take Remus and Krum. Hermione, can you take Weasley?"

"Yes, I – I think so."

"And Draco, you can apparate yourself all right, yeah?"

"I can take Krum, if you want, Truffle," Draco offered weakly, not actually sure he could, but damnit it wasn't fair for Truffle to have to take both men. And, if he happened to splinch Krum, well, he wouldn't shed any tears over it, put it that way.

"You take the Kolokol-1," Truffle's disembodied voice said instead, and then they were both feeling around, trying to find each other in the mud, and swapped the bag successfully, and Draco blinked hard and tried to focus, tried not to pass out.

"Ready?" Truffle said, and a chorus of weak assents came. "You disapparate first, Hermione and Ron, and then you, Draco, and then I will with Krum and Remus."

"If you have a choice about it, splinch Weasley and not yourself, Hermione," Draco said to her, half a joke, half really fucking meaning it, and Weasley choked out a hacking laugh, and Hermione made an odd, shocked little sound.

"See you on the other side, Malfoy," Weasley said dryly, and Hermione found Draco's arm and patted at it, and then there was a crack and both of them were gone.

"Your turn," Truffle said to him, and he closed his eyes and pictured the foyer of the Godric's Hollow house, and the world twisted and _he _twisted, and then he impacted face-first on the carpeted foyer, the bag of Kolokol-1 clutched white-knuckled tight in his hand, and the warmth of the place cutting through him like a knife.

"_Finite_," a voice said, and then hands grabbed at him, pulled him up, the bag of Kolokol-1 was stripped away and he was dragged to one side, the light too bright and the world spinning, and then there was a crack and he squinted and saw Truffle, Lupin and Krum on the floor, and a chunk of Truffle's thigh was _gone. _Nothing but red, bleeding meat, and then people rushed forward and obscured her and the other two from view. Draco choked back the nausea at the sight of Truffle's bleeding leg and swung his head drunkenly around, ignoring the excited, frantic babble going on around him, and his eyes found Hermione. _Hermione_. She was whole and unsplinched, leaning heavily against Potter and looking absolutely awful, but fuck, she was _alive_.

He tried to stumble to her, not thinking, running on instinct, but whoever was holding him upright jerked him back to them before he could fall, holding on securely. "Hang on, Malfoy," came Fred Weasley's cheerful voice.

"You're not going anywhere without a helping hand, mate," George finished for his twin, and Draco gritted his teeth and scowled, eyes pinned to Hermione. She smiled at him, pale blue lips curving up, and his heart fucking _ached_. She was alive and smiling, and that was enough for now, and he smiled back automatically, bubbling over with a ridiculous, exhausted joy. Then the world spun and vertigo hit Draco hard, and he wobbled in the twins' arms, suddenly aware again of more than just Hermione. The mud dripping off him, the fierce pain streaking through his upper body, the tightness of his lungs, the dizzy confusion of his mind…

"Get them upstairs," Professor McGonagall's voice rang sharply through the room, shrill and worried. "Madeleine will be here any moment to treat them – quickly, come on," she ordered briskly, and then Draco had to follow with the Weasley twins or be dragged along bodily, half staggering, half being _hauled_ up the stairs like a sack of potatoes. They helped him through into the makeshift infirmary, flopped him as gently as possible down on a bed, taking the gun carefully when he mumbled something about it. They set about _scourgifying_ him so that he was clean and dry, if still feeling bone cold – they hadn't thought to cast warming charms on their way out of the base, and he was freezing, despite the blankets they laid over him. He lay there, rolling his head to the side and watching as Potter helped lie Hermione down on the bed next to his, _scourgifying _her, and drawing a blanket up over her.

She met his eyes and reached out a hand toward him, her eyes frightened. "Can't breathe," she whispered, barely audible and struggling to get the words out, and Draco swallowed hard and made his own arm reach out towards her. They couldn't quite touch, too far apart, and Draco let his arm fall, dangling over the side of the bed limply. "You'll be fine," he told her faintly, and he _had_ to believe that, had to believe she would be all right. He stared at her, at her pale cheeks and firewhiskey eyes all sunk in purple hollows, and dry, blue-tinged lips until his eyes hazed over and he couldn't see anything anymore, but a blur. His eyelids felt heavy and he couldn't breathe, and the last thing he heard before his eyes slid shut and his mind shut down, falling into darkness, was Madeleine Dubois-Volkov's accented voice.

"_Mon dieu_; extensive mustard gas exposure, and trace amounts of hydrogen cyanide exposure, from the looks of these scans. Quickly, quickly, we'll have to –"

**# # # # # #**

Draco mumbled blearily, rubbed at his eyes as he swam up out of unconsciousness and blinked up at an unfamiliar ceiling. For a second he wondered what the hell was going on and where he was, and then he remembered. The Russian base mission. The gas exposure, Kiam's betrayal, the gunshot wounds, the struggle to breathe, to keep going – he pulled in a deep breath now, just to see if he could, and his lungs inflated, gloriously, almost painlessly. He sighed with contented relief, and then remembered Hermione and tried to jerk upright, and pain roared through him. He stared around wildly, and couldn't see her anywhere – he was alone in the makeshift infirmary. No – there was a shape in the bed on the other side of the room. Lupin, he realised; unconscious, but from the rise and fall of the blankets covering the man, alive.

But there was no one else in the room, and Draco flung the blankets back weakly and swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet flat on the cold floor. He noted absently as he slid off the bed and tested his strength, hanging onto the bed with his hand, that he was still in his battered leather Auror chausses, but his chest was bare and bandaged around, as was his shoulder. He took a step, his mind on Hermione, telling himself that she was fine. That she'd recovered, and didn't need to be in the infirmary. She wasn't dead. She _wasn't_. He wobbled, awkward and unsteady on his feet, still feeling weak, and his stomach feeling hollow and empty, and his head all foggy. He stumbled, slow step after step to the door and clung to the doorframe, steadying himself and taking a breath.

He looked down the hallway in each direction, and still saw no one, and made his weak limbs propel him in the direction of Hermione's room, just down the hall. It hurt to move, and it took him an unreasonable amount of time to make it the ten metres down the hallway, but then he was at her door, clinging to the wall, feeling _drunk_ and probably looking it too, he imagined, and shoving the door open. And there she was, and a rattling breath escaped him, the relief that swept him up overwhelming. She looked up from the bed, where she lay curled in a ball on top of the covers in a tank top and pyjama trousers, looking exhausted but wonderfully alive.

"Draco – you shouldn't be up!" was the first thing she said as she sat up with weariness printed all over her, all frowning, stern worry, glaring at him. He grinned at her, _oozing_ relief, _swamped_ with it. "You weren't there." His grin vanished and his voice shook and grated. "I thought you were _dead_, Hermione."

"Oh…" she said very small and an aching sympathy erased her frown, and then she was clambering off the bed hurriedly and he shoved off from the door frame and yanked the door shut, trying very hard not to fall down. They met in the middle of her tiny room, and her mouth was tilting up to his, and her hands on his back, skin against skin, and his hand twined in her loose hair, his maimed arm wrapped tightly around her waist. He swayed into her, weak and wobbly, and they both nearly overbalanced, and she laughed against his lips, and kissed him hard. Pulled back a little and they helped each other to the bed – or rather, she helped _him_ to be honest – and he sank onto it, Hermione pressed against his side, her hands all over him, like she was making sure he was real.

He kissed her again, his mouth seeking hers and finding it unerringly, her lips warm and soft and her tongue hot, and he groaned at the feel of her, at the fierce want vibrating through her, palpable and greedy. Draco clung to her, tipped them both over clumsily so that he pinned her between himself and the bed, half-mindless with the lingering confusion and the intoxicating feel of her. Hermione's legs wrapped around his hips, and her hands stroked over his cheeks, rasping over the stubble there, and he kissed her hard enough to clash their teeth together, sucked on her lower lip, bit it lightly, made her moan and whimper. He dragged his mouth away, nuzzled her neck, his cock hard and digging into her, and he tilted his hips so that he bumped it against her clit and she made a delicious, meltingly wanting sound that nearly made him cum in his bloody trousers, her body arching up off the bed to meet his.

"Fuck…" he muttered into her neck, choked up and clinging to her, unable to believe that it was over and they were both all right, all stuffed to bursting with _want_ and relief, and her hands slid light over his back and sent shivers down his spine. "Want you," he mumbled against her skin. "Hermione." His hips ground against her, and suddenly there were too many layers of clothing between them and he itched to just sink himself into her. "_Hermione_. Want you."

Hermione made a wobbly, mewling whimper and her hands were rough and quick, jerking his chausses open and shoving them down over his hips with desperate speed, and his cock sprang free. He held in his own whimper as she wrapped her hand tight around his cock, sliding her fisted hand up and down and his breath choked out of him, his own hand wriggled its way up under her tank top, finger and thumb plucking at her nipples and making her squirm. He grinned, kissing her neck clumsily, sucking and biting, _wanting_ to mark her, his conscious mind gone, just working on blind lust. She gasped his name, a strangled _Draco_ that made his stomach lurch and his heart skip, and then _please_ slid from her lips and she was scrabbling to push her pyjama trousers down, and his hand, lightning fast, slid down her body to her soft, wet heat.

She was fucking sopping with arousal, and Draco's fingers slid along over her slick folds teasingly, finding her clit and rubbing in little circles, and she bucked under him. She locked one arm around his neck and buried her face against his unwounded shoulder and whimpered helplessly as he drew little circles and figure eights on the sensitive nub. Her other hand kept a tight grip on his cock, but she seemed to have lost the ability to do anything with it, and his name was spilling from her lips, over and over, messy and garbled and frantic. "Oh god, Draco…Draco…oh – oh – oh _Merlin_, _Draco_…"

He grinned at that as he kissed his way along her jaw, and slowly, so fucking slowly, slid two fingers inside her wet, hot cunt, and she twitched around him, her body clamped down on his fingers and she moaned and juddered underneath him. He bit down on his lip _hard_, trying not to cum as her hand absently, arrhythmically, started sliding up and down his cock, twisting and pulling a little.

"_Shit_…Hermione…" Draco gasped, squeezing his eyes tight shut and fucking her with his fingers, curling them to hit the place inside her that she liked so much, and then she _quivered _around him like she was coming apart. Her hand faltered around his cock and her body bowed on the bed, her fingers dug into his shoulder and a long, wavering moan burst out of her as she came. She bucked beneath him, her cunt spasming around his fingers and he pulled them out, dripping with her juices, and roughly, without any ceremony, shoved his cock into her meltingly tight heat, and his head sank to hers, cheek to cheek, his hand clutching her hip and holding her steady with slippery fingers. She moaned as Draco thrust, and he bit back whimpers and his breathing was ragged and jerky, her cheek so smooth, so soft against his.

Draco's body was screaming pain and exhaustion at him, and his muscles trembled with the effort not to collapse on Hermione and squash her, but that was all drowned beneath the pleasure, for now. The pain was irrelevant and unimportant when compared to the exquisite sensation of her cunt wrapped around his cock, her body squirming and arching warm and soft under his, her mouth kissing wet and clumsy and needy along his jaw, mewing little wanton cries. He fucked Hermione as hard as he could, which wasn't very, considering the shape he was in, but from the sounds she was making it was more than good enough for her. She was breathless and he was breathless, and they were stuck together, both of them hot, skin dewed with sweat, and she murmured in jagged bits of phrases that she loved him, and all he could do was hold her tighter, unable to say it in the moment – it was too much, too vulnerable, and his lips closed around the words and trapped them in.

It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for Draco to cum, his rhythm quickening out of control, buried to the hilt as he came in her. Pleasure seized him, rolling through him, crushing him beneath it, his face buried in the crook of her neck, gasping his pleasure hot into her skin, fingers spasming hard on her hip. And then it was done, and over, and he was _exhausted_ and he sank himself onto her limply, panting like he'd run a marathon, heart _pounding_ and body lighting up with fiery licks of pain. Hermione jerked in a shallow breath as though he was squishing her, but when he tried to roll off her, she held him there with her legs locked around his hips and her fingers ran through his hair over and over, and he sighed into the crook of her neck, contented and drowsy.

He was still inside her, not _quite_ hard now, but hard enough that his cock hadn't slipped out, and her cunt was hot around him and all deliciously, wonderfully sloppy with his cum and her juices all mingled, and Draco hummed a happy sound and just _lay_ there for a moment, still inside her, her fingers combing through his hair soothingly, her thighs clamped tight around his hips. He could say it then, mumbled it lazy and sleepy. "Love you."

He couldn't see, but he knew she was smiling, and she said it back to him, smug happiness in her tone as her fingertips glided from his temple down his cheek, along the line of his jaw. And then she pushed at him lightly. "Now get off me, Draco. You're crushing me."

"I tried to – _you_ kept me on you," he protested rather indignantly as he rolled off her, and nearly rolled right off the damn narrow single bed and onto the floor. She snuggled herself up against him as he settled back, head on the pillows. "So?" she retorted pertly and he jabbed her in the side and made her snort ticklishly and jab him herself, and he caught her hand and delicately bit the tip of her index finger, snugged her hand up in his under his chin, and sighed, long and tiredly. His heart was still pounding, and his wounds felt like they'd been set alight, but Hermione was alive, and he assumed Weasley, Krum, Lupin and Truffle must be too, or she'd have been upset, and told him straight away. They'd gotten the Kolokol-1, lost Tiptree, been betrayed by Kiam – but if Dubois-Volkov could do what she'd said, they'd be ready for the assault on Gringotts soon. And that made the Russian mission a win, for Draco.

"How long was I out?" he asked sometime later; under the blankets now, still in his unlaced chausses and Hermione in nowt but her tank top and a dreamy smile. "All night, and half the morning – I woke up at about eight this morning and Madeleine said I was all right to leave the infirmary. It should be coming up on lunch, soon," she said, her hand splayed out across his stomach, leg hooked over his and head on the pillow snugged right up against his wounded shoulder instead of resting on it.

"The Kolokol-1?"

"She's working on it now. She says she'll have it ready to go in around forty-eight hours, and Kingsley was saying he wants to launch the attack on Gringotts in three days, so we've got some time to recover."

"Does Shacklebolt know –" Draco began, a trace of sympathy in his voice; he couldn't imagine how awful it would be to find out Hermione had betrayed him, and then been killed.

"About Kiam? Yes, Jinx Truffle told him last night. He…well, he took it better than I would have thought. God, poor Kingsley. I still can't believe what happened. That Kiam would do that… I mean, I didn't know him, but he and Kingsley seemed so in love…" She trailed off as a frantic knocking came at the door, and Draco groaned, rubbed his hand over his face.

"Fuck off!" he yelled, not caring _who_ was there – he just wanted Hermione all to himself, for a little while at least. She slapped his stomach. "Draco!"

"Hermione! 'Mione! Open up!" Weasley shouted through the door, hoarse but excited and Draco raised a questioning eyebrow at Hermione, who shrugged. "Hang on, Ron!" she called back and scrambled out of bed, nearly falling on her arse as she unsteadily dragged on her pyjama trousers. She shot Draco a pointed look and he groaned, sat up and stood, feeling like jelly, letting Hermione's nimble fingers do up his chausses so he could sit heavily back down on the bed. She ran her hands over her hair, and opened the door to Weasley, who looked pale beneath his freckles, terror mixed with excitement all over his face. He took in Hermione's wild hair, inside out pyjama trousers, and Draco's half-dressed state on the edge of the rumpled bed in a single glance, and made a slightly disgusted face as he quickly put the evidence together. He said nothing though, and Draco smirked at him slightly.

"Ron?" Hermione asked. "Should you be up? You –"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, 'Mione," he brushed her concerns off with a wave of his hand, although he looked as utterly fucked as Draco and Hermione, holding onto the door frame as if to steady himself. "'Mione – Cho and I are…" Weasley gulped, and then grinned, a little sickly. "…Getting married tomorrow."

"Ron! That's _wonderful!_" Hermione flung her arms around the redhead; nearly knocking them both over in her enthusiasm, and Draco staggered to his feet and crossed the room carefully as she squeezed Weasley half to death. When Hermione finally released Weasley, Draco held out his hand to the other boy. "Congratulations, Weasley."

Weasley stared at his hand for a moment, and then took it, shook it heartily, grinning ear to ear. "Thanks mate."

"I thought you were going to wait until _after_ the mission to Gringotts…" Hermione said cautiously, and Weasley grinned, scratched his head and shrugged, the picture of ruefulness. "Yeah, well…Cho and I talked about it when I woke up this morning. Or rather, _Cho_ talked _at_ me about it, and – and, well…we're getting married tomorrow."

"I'm so happy for you," Hermione said sincerely, but Draco didn't miss that _damned_ shadow passing over her face again as she smiled at her friend. As she no doubt thought about her and Draco, comparing their situation to Weasley and Chang's.

"Will you stand up with me?" Weasley was asking Hermione. "I know it's usually guys that do, but I want Harry and _you_ – it wouldn't feel right any other way."

"Of _course_ I will, Ron," Hermione gushed, and hugged the redhead again, and when she released him there were tears standing in her eyes. "I'd be honoured."

"It's nothing fancy, of course. Maybe after the war's over we'll have a big ceremony with all the trimmings, but right now Cho just wants to make it official. And you know me; I don't really care about all that stuff. So…wear something nice, or I guess mum'll kill you…oh, and Kingsley's doing the ceremony –" Draco winced at that; the man was marrying two people the day after his lover betrayed him, and then was murdered? That couldn't be bloody easy. His respect for Shacklebolt went up slightly. "– And mum says we'll have it at 11am tomorrow, in the back garden." Weasley grinned. "She's utterly _distraught_ that we're not having a big do like Bill and Fleur, and she's frantic about trying to pretty up the garden."

"I can imagine," Hermione said dryly, and then Weasley grinned about at them both stupidly, and backed up, "Right then, I'm off to keep spreading the good news."

"Sure. And Ron – I really am happy for you and Cho."

"Thanks 'Mione. Malfoy," he nodded an acknowledgment, and Draco nodded back. "Weasley."

And then Hermione shut the door and sank back against it, and there were still tears in her eyes, and Draco didn't know if they were sad tears, or happy tears. If she was truly just happy for Ron, or thinking again about what _he_ couldn't give her. Tentatively, unsure how Hermione was going to react, Draco drew her to him, kissed her forehead lightly and she let him, hands coming up to grip his shoulders painfully tight. She didn't seem to want to talk, and he didn't know what to say, anyway – he didn't think there was anything he could say.

"I wish…that we could…" she began after a long, awkward moment and then clicked her teeth together, making a snuffling, wounded sort of sound into the bandages on his chest. He stroked her back and thought about Kiam and Shacklebolt, and how close he had been to losing Hermione in Russia, and about the Gringotts mission looming ahead in just a few days… It all came together to give Draco a painful kind of clarity about what was important, about the only thing he could _allow_ to be important, and that wasn't the future, it was them, _her_, and what they had, right _now_.

They only had so much time, and Draco didn't know how long that would be. And he couldn't give Hermione marriage, or children, or any sort of future – not even the _possibility_ of it, one day, if they won the war. So he did the only thing he could do; he led her back to the bed, and silently helped her strip off her clothes, and she his, their mouths meeting and mingling. And then they were naked and entwined and still kissing and moving together, worn down and hurt, each being gentle, slow, tender with the other. Hermione's cheeks seemed wet when she tucked her face into the crook of his neck, and Draco thought maybe she was quietly crying but he didn't want to think too hard about that. So instead he did his best to stop her doing anything but feeling what he was doing to her, and she did the same with him – they might be exhausted and wounded, but they were still capable of losing the next few hours in each other.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **I hope you liked the chapter, and if you did, then please let me know in a **review**! Your appreciation is what keeps me writing, instead of losing motivation like I have done in the past with most of the fanfiction stories I've written and not posted to the net. I love to hear that what I write has turned out okay, and is enjoyable to read :)

Next chapter, Ron and Cho get married, the promised pantry happenings of people other than Hermione and Draco occur, and everyone prepares for the extremely dangerous Gringotts mission in their own ways.

Christine – Draco's birthday is coming up in the next two chapters; I have not forgotten about it, I have special _plans_ for it :)

Only two chapters left of **The Risk-Reward Ratio**, and it'll be done! Complete! I can't believe it's almost at an end. But of course, Hermione and Draco's story will continue, through to the end of the war and beyond, in **The Just World Fallacy**, which is mostly roughly plotted out. I can tell you now, it will be a veritable _cauldron_ of heartbreaking angst, tragedy, romance, smut, violence, torture, and Other Exciting Happenings (with a happy ending, of course.)


	44. Lost in the Moment

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favourited. You have no idea how much of a boost it gives me to know people like the story :) You can find a page with progress updates, and the occasional attempt at photo-editing for this story (and a pic for the sequel _The Just World Fallacy_) on Facebook, at /theriskrewardratio

This chapter – Ron and Cho's wedding! And for once, I think I've managed to write a happy chapter, so I hope you enjoy!

**# # # # # #**

**Lost in the Moment**

_Sometimes you find yourself waiting_

_Waiting for someone to come around_

_And it's hopeless, hoping to be found_

_Then it arrives and says, "You're perfect, my love"_

_And I,_

_I know why_

_[Broken Jaw, Foster the People]_

**# # # # # #**

The morning dawned crisp and clear, the sun bright and warm overhead, and the back garden was already a hive of activity as Hermione hooked the curtain aside and stuck her head up to the window pane, elbows on the sill, looking down on the bustling frenzy. Mrs Weasley was clearly in charge, standing around fussing and giving orders, and worrying about how things looked, and what Cho's parents would think of it, irritably snapping out, _**no**_, _Fred, that goes over __**there**_, and _George, I swear to Merlin, if you don't stop acting like such a fool __**you will be sorry!**_

Draco's hand slid down Hermione's naked back and she pulled back from the window, turning to face him. He lazed on the bed, dark hollows under his eyes, which were pale and bright in the morning light and blinking sleepily at her. There was a contemplative, peaceful sort of look to him; the faint curve to his mouth, the sleepy relaxation radiating out from him…

"Good morning," Hermione said, smiling at Draco, and he made a humming, rumbling sound and latched his hand around her wrist, yanking her down to sprawl on top of him, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her thoroughly. His skin was warm on hers and his thumb rubbed over the side of her face, his maimed arm tight around her waist, his lips soft and hungry on hers.

"Good morning," he said after releasing her at last, lying nose to nose, she blanketing him, both gloriously naked, and his morning erection dug into the top of her thigh, and his hand had a rather firm grip on her bum.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked him, letting her face drop and nestle into the crook of his neck, and felt him nod. "Much improved, I'm glad to say. I feel rather _less_ like complete and utter shit today. Dubois-Volkov certainly knows what she's doing; I'll say that for her."

Hermione felt miles better herself; the nausea was gone, her mind was clear and focused again, and while she still felt a bit weak, she had no doubt that after another good night's rest she'd be back in top form. She wriggled off Draco, lying back on the bed with the early morning sun falling across them both, and thought about the wedding being organised at that very moment. She was happy for Ron – Merlin, so happy. He and Cho were surprisingly, well…perfect for each other. Wanting to make Cho proud of him was pushing Ron to mature and grow as a person, and as for what Cho got out of their relationship… Well, Ron seemed to make her laugh; kept her optimistic and positive, and he obviously absolutely worshipped her and did everything he could to make her happy.

Yes, Hermione thought they were well-suited – certainly better suited than _she_ and Ron had ever been. And today Ron would be married, and Hermione would get to stand by his side with Harry and witness for the happy couple. And then Harry would be getting married, and one by one all of her friends would pair off and get married and have children, and somehow…Hermione didn't see that happening for her. If she was lucky they might get to be together – quietly, discreetly – but she didn't imagine Draco would ever agree to marriage or children. He didn't want to _taint her by association_. Hermione felt her good mood dissipate, and groaned internally. It did her absolutely no good to mope about what she couldn't change, and she was supposed to be _happy_ today, focused on Ron and Cho, and not her own stupid perennial problems.

"How are you feeling?" Draco asked her quietly, and she cracked an eye open to see he was staring at her cautiously, his own relaxed air gone too, and she felt terrible for ruining the mood. "Much better," she said brightly and sat up, raking her fingers through her hair and trying to force herself to be cheerful.

"You're getting up already?" Draco asked as she scrounged up her tank top and pulled it on, and she spared him a quick smile that felt false on her face. There was no point in lingering in bed with him when she felt like this, all unsettled and edgy; it wouldn't be fair to Draco to put all her gloomy, irritable snippiness onto him. "It's eight o'clock, Draco – hardly _early_."

Draco's hand brushed her hair to one side, and then slid teasingly up her side beneath her tank top, slipping around to her front to cup a breast, and his lips brushed over the back of her neck and shoulders, dotting persuasive kisses. His fringe tickled her sensitive skin, and his fingers did wonderful things to her breasts, making aching quivers shoot down between her legs, but Hermione wasn't in the mood. She slid forward, extricating herself from his grip and searching under the covers for her knickers, trying to ignore the slightly affronted, hurt look on his face at her rejection. She almost never pushed him away. Hermione found her knickers and clambered out of the bed, wiggled them on as Draco stared pointedly at the ceiling and not her, sulkiness a protective screen over top of his hurt.

"We've got a wedding to prepare for," she said at last, feeling like a right bitch, but if she didn't want to have sex with him then she didn't bloody _have_ to, and really, he was being an entitled prat making her feeling bad about it… But she still felt a little guilty, because she was punishing him for his stubbornness and that wasn't right, but there wasn't much she could do about it. She sighed and tried to shove her conflicting feelings deep, deep down and bent to kiss him lightly on the cheek. He eyed her silently, and she smiled, cheerful and brisk and _bright_, trying her hardest to feel all those things and almost, _almost_ succeeding.

"I'm going to go have a shower and see if Ginny can beat some order into my hair. _You_ need to find something nice for you to wear to the wedding."

Draco groaned at that and flopped his arm over his eyes. "Oh fuck. Do I have to go?"

"Draco…"

"I don't fucking want to, Hermione." He was snappy and she glared at him, and there were undercurrents that she didn't want to breach and neither did he, but it seemed like everything they said had another, hidden meaning.

"You have to. You can't _not_ go. It's not like you have to go anywhere, it's right down in the back garden for Merlin's sake. _Everyone_ is going. You can't be the only one _not_ to."

"_I don't like weddings_," Draco said, his jaw clenched and his eyes fixed on a distant point on the wall, all narrowed and hard stone grey; unreadable.

"Well I'm not exactly overjoyed today _either_. I'm – I'm tired, and still not feeling the best…" She made excuses, but it was obvious what she meant even though she tried to skirt around it, and Draco flinched and she felt stupid, and defensive, and horrible. But she wasn't backing down on this, because it was important, so she soldiered on… "But I'm still going to go and stand up beside Ron and try to make sure today is as happy as possible for him by smiling and laughing and being there, because today is supposed to be a happy, wonderful day for him and Cho, and _I'm_ not a selfish _git_."

"Oh for Merlin's fucking sake, Hermione, you're his friend and I'm not – I don't see _why_ it's so important to have me there. No one's going to notice or even _care_ if I'm not –" Draco started, huffy and closed off, and Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling like crying and yelling at him and only barely restraining herself. They argued for a while, that back and forth snipping and snapping that wasn't light-hearted but had a note of cruelty to the centre of every jab, and even though when Hermione took herself to the shower fifteen minutes later she'd gotten Draco to agree to attend, and had _won_ the argument, she felt like the day had been irreparably soured for her.

Hermione wasn't going to let it be soured for Ron and Cho though – no, she was determined that her own problems weren't going to cast a cloud over _their _day. She would act completely and utterly normal and ecstatically happy for Ron and Cho. It was ridiculous and self-indulgent to spend today dwelling on the fact that Draco didn't want to give her what Ron and Cho were getting to experience today. It was self-pitying, pointless, and didn't change a thing, she told herself firmly as she showered almost angrily, scrubbing herself pink and clean, and dragging a brush viciously through her hair. She shouldn't even really be disappointed in Draco, or angry at him – he was only trying to do what he thought was best for her, because he loved her. Never _mind_ that it was the stupidest, most pig-headed, controlling sort of decision for him to make – never mind that she didn't even _care_ what the wizarding world thought of her being married to Draco. He was against marrying her because he loved her, not because he wanted to hurt her – even, she fumed in her head, though that was the _exact_ effect it had on her.

Besides, as Ginny told her while she struggled with Hermione's hair, using some carefully hoarded Sleekeazy's potion to try to make it curl nicely, Hermione was one of the stubbornest witches Ginny knew, and if _anyone_ could convince Draco to change his mind, it would be Hermione. And that made her feel a little better. The future wasn't set in stone, was it? Ron and Cho's marriage was a perfect example of that – everyone had expected Hermione and Ron to fall into a relationship and work out perfectly, and instead here Ron was, marrying the girl Harry used to have an enormous crush on. Anything could happen in the future, Hermione told herself as she made herself smile at Draco across the breakfast table, her hair done beautifully but still in her pyjamas. Anything at all.

**# # # # # #**

The garden was beautiful. A gauzy, open-sided gazebo similar to the one they'd used at Bill and Fleur's wedding, only smaller, was erected in the garden. There were coloured, magical red and blue flames darting like little will-o-the-wisps beneath the roof of the gazebo, and an arch had been constructed at the far end, transfigured red climbing roses winding up it, their scent perfuming the air. Plain white chairs were lined up in two narrow groups to form an aisle from the back of the gazebo to the rose-bedecked arch, and the chairs on the inside of the aisle were festooned with gauzy dark blue ribbons and more scarlet roses. The aisle was a blue carpet leading from the back porch to the arch, and was sprinkled along the sides with rose petals.

Hermione wore the red dress and shoes she'd worn to Bill and Fleur's wedding, her hair successfully tamed by Ginny into a tumble of curls pinned back off her face, a red rose tucked behind her ear, and her wand in her hands, ready to affix her signature to the marriage parchment. She stood by Harry's side and the late morning sun shone softly through the gazebo roof as they waited for Cho to come out from the house on her father's arm. Harry was uncomfortable in his suit, tugging at his tie and shuffling his feet until Hermione elbowed him in the side and scolded him, and Ron was pale as a sheet in his own Muggle-style suit, standing statue-still and staring down the aisle with huge, half-terrified eyes.

The three of them could hear Fred and George bantering to each other in the front row, and Hermione listened with amused interest, Ron losing his terrified expression long enough to look sulkily offended, and Harry trying to hide his grin.

"Fred – I'll wager you a galleon that our darling Ronniekins faints before the ceremony's over."

"No deal – the odds aren't good enough that he _won't_. Negligible, really. And you don't have a galleon to your name anyway, George."

"Oh, come on, Fred – four knuts that he runs off gibbering then…"

Angelina – seated between the twins and looking positively radiant in a short dark purple empire-waisted dress – grinned and whispered just loud enough to Hermione to hear, "I bet you a galleon each that he doesn't faint at all, _or_ run off gibbering. Stop teasing your brother on his wedding day."

"Done," Fred and George whispered in unison. "The bet, not the teasing," Fred clarified, and the twins exchanged satisfied smirks across Angelina, whose left foot was hooked around George's ankle, while her right hand was interlocked with Fred's. Mrs Weasley, Hermione saw, was studiously avoiding looking at the odd threesome, a grim look on her face even as she tried to make awkward, polite conversation with Cho's mum.

"I _like_ her," Ron said appreciatively of Angelina, managing a twitchy sort of grin in her direction. Harry said something joking back to Ron, clapping him on the shoulder, and Hermione's attention drifted with the sounds of the charmed harp playing softly in the background, and her gaze turned to the very outside chair at the back row. Draco sat there, looking like he wished he was _anywhere_ else but there, in a charcoal grey silk shirt and black dress trousers, clean-shaven and his hair flopping pale over his eyes. Hermione stared at him and couldn't stop thinking how handsome he looked, how heartbreakingly perfect with those wide-set grey eyes and expressive mouth, and those sharp, angular features. She kept hoping he was going to look up at her, but his eyes were downcast, as if he was trying to avoid catching her gaze.

Because it was awkward, to be at a wedding as a couple and know that the probability of you ever being married was far too low, even though you both wanted that, one day, in the future. She had seen the guilt in Draco all morning; evident in the way he'd been so quiet but so unexpectedly attentive, the way that – once he'd given in to the idea of attending the wedding – he'd been so biddable, not arguing with her or even _snarking _ at all. He felt guilty, she could tell, and although a part of her thought a fierce _good_ and hoped the guilt would make him change his silly, stubborn mind, most of her just didn't want him to feel awful.

And then the music picked up, swelling into a beautiful, light melody, and Cho appeared on the blue carpeted aisle, on crutches that Luna – who else? – had painted gaudily silver and tied blue ribbons to, her father hovering with his hand at the small of her back, steadying her. Cho was glowing in a high-collared, sleeveless midnight blue gown that was embroidered all over with a delicate floral pattern in silver thread. It clung to her body tightly down to her hips, outlining every curve, and then gently swirled out to the floor – understated, elegant, feminine, and perfectly Cho. The Ravenclaw's hair was swept up atop her head and held in place by a heavy antique silver hair comb, matching earrings dangling from her ears, a silver cuff on her right wrist. She looked beautiful, and she was smiling at Ron like he was the only person in the world.

Hermione turned her head and looked past Harry at Ron, and her heart lurched. Ron was returning Cho's look, his face blinded to anything but her, and a slow smile spread over his face until he was grinning ear to ear, and his blue eyes were alight. Cho made her slow way down the aisle with her father's help – she was an expert on her crutches, but a full-length dress was rather more difficult to manoeuvre in, and then her father was passing her to Ron, and she was staring up at her fiancé with pure joy on her face. He enclosed her bare upper arms in his hands, steadying her, and she let her crutches dangle loosely from her elbows, and Hermione watched transfixed as Ron bent his head to Cho's ear and whispered something that made the bride blush and stifle a giggle. They looked so happy. So right together.

Hermione looked out at Draco, and for a moment their eyes met, and his face was painstakingly expressionless, and then he looked away sharply and Hermione let out a breath she hadn't even realised she'd been holding. She'd been hoping their eyes would connect and, and…well, she'd been thinking silly, childish things that weren't at all realistic.

Kingsley cleared his throat, and began the ceremony, and Hermione's attention was grabbed by it, soaking it in. A simple exchange of vows, not so dissimilar to a Muggle wedding, and Ron and Cho said everything with such love in their voices, eyes only for each other, that Hermione sniffled to herself quietly and wished she'd thought to have a hanky on hand. As Hermione whisked away a tear, she caught Harry grinning with affectionate mockery at her show of emotions.

"Here," he whispered, lips barely moving, plucking the handkerchief out of his suit jacket and passing it over. "Thanks," she whispered back dabbing beneath her eyes, "And don't laugh – it'll be yours and Ginny's wedding I'll be crying at next." She nodded her head to Ginny in the audience, her face rapt and alert, and _clearly_ noting all the things she liked about the ceremony and set-up, filing it all away for later use. Harry blanched a little, and Hermione grinned at him, and then turned her attention back to the ceremony, which was nearly over now, her borrowed hanky all damply scrunched up in her hand.

"Do you, Ronald Bilious Weasley, accept this witch, Cho Chang, to be your lawful wedded wife?"

Ron gulped and nodded. "I – I do." His hands were clutching Cho's arms tightly, and she was biting her lip as she stared up at him, her dark eyes shining, smiling at Ron's nervousness.

"And do you, Cho Chang, accept this wizard, Ronald Bilious Weasley, to be your lawful wedded husband?"

"I do," she said calmly and clearly, voice ringing through the gazebo.

"Very well," Kingsley said, and raised his wand, and Ron slipped his right hand down Cho's arm to hold her left hand awkwardly in his, gazing into her eyes as Kingsley spoke the words that cast the marriage bonds. A twisting, twining ribbon of magic shimmered into existence around Ron and Cho's linked hands. Like an Unbreakable Vow, only it was not _technically_ unbreakable. "_Duo corpora in implicenturque, duo spiritus implicenturque, duarum mentium et implicenturque, quod sibi adhuc duo tamen, sed obstrictus et conjunctio illorum, per quidem modo vincula hoc promiseritis votum._" **†**

"Let no one separate what has been cleaved together on this day," Kingsley said in English, a carefully weighted gravity to his voice, and the magical ribbon sank into Ron and Cho's flesh and dissipated, and the two newlyweds looked up at the dark man, a breathless, heavy anticipation hanging in the air. "You walk into an uncertain future at this, a cusp in your lives," Kingsley said gravely, his eyes shadowed as he spoke their blessing. "But as long as you stand together and allow no one to divide you, you will find the strength to face anything. May the fates smile upon you both." And then he smiled broadly at Ron. "You may now kiss the bride."

Ron smiled at Cho and bent his head to hers, and as their lips met, a firm, joyous clash, the blue and red will-o-the-wisps flared into a brief, glorious conflagration at a flick of Fred and George's wands, and everybody stood and started clapping the newlyweds. Cho's mother, Ge Chang was crying happily and leaning into her husband, Han, who was looking very stoic, apart from a suspicious mistiness to his eyes. Molly Weasley was dabbing at her eyes and sniffing, and Arthur was looking all red-faced and choked up with emotion, just about bursting with fatherly pride.

And Draco, at the very back, was staring at Hermione with an aching longing in every line of him, clapping dutifully with the others but with eyes only for her. Not avoiding her, but staring directly ar her, their eyes connecting sharp and Hermione felt a frisson hum through the air between them. And he smiled at her, a wistful tilt of his mouth, and Hermione was sure she could _feel_ her heart shatter. She couldn't smile back, couldn't do anything but hold in her tears as they looked at each other and she _knew_ he wanted _this_ for them, just as much as she did. She jerked her head away, blinking hard, her eyes stinging and prickling, cursing Draco for being so _stubborn_, so pig-headed, for refusing her what she wanted under the guise of protecting her. For a moment, she hated him.

And then Ron and Cho were signing the marriage scroll in golden ink, and Cho's mother gave Cho her wand, which she'd been holding for her, Cho having had no bridesmaids, and Cho affixed her magical mark by her signature, and Harry gave Ron _his_ wand, and Ron affixed his mark. It was Harry's turn next to sign his name as witness, and affix his mark with the simple little charm that confirmed his signature was genuine, and then Hermione bent over the little table, the quill unsteady in her trembling fingers and tears burning behind her eyes. Happiness for Ron and Cho, bubbling up and overflowing, and grief for herself and Draco, which she viciously shoved deep, deep down. She signed her name neatly, only the faintest tremor to the golden ink scrawl, and pressed her wand tip against her signature, felt the little burst of magic flow into the scroll.

And then Kingsley was rolling up the scroll and sealing it with a blob of wax, congratulating Ron and Cho, and then Hermione and Harry took their turns hugging the happy couple. Ron squeezed Hermione tight, and kissed her cheek, joy surrounding him like a physical force, and it was impossible not to be infected by it.

"Congratulations, Ron. I'm – I'm so happy for you," Hermione said, staring into his blue eyes and remembering _everything_, and for a moment he was a rude little boy on the Hogwarts Express, and then he was him again, grown up; an adult_, a married man_, smiling at her broadly and saying, "Thanks, 'Mione." And then Molly Weasley was bustling up and hugging her boy, and Hermione was pushed back further into the throng of well-wishers, discombobulated and choked up with happy tears, sad tears, nostalgic tears – she was a veritable sea of every emotion possible, but she kept it all locked tightly down. The guests were sweeping their chairs to the sides and stacking them neatly, opening the gazebo up into a dance floor, and music started playing – not a band, they couldn't get a band of course, but a record.

Sweeping, swelling music, and everyone moved back from Ron and Cho, and Ron looked nervously around and Cho bit her lip – how could they dance with her leg, Hermione realised with horrified embarrassment and sympathy for them. There was a brief, palpable awkwardness that seeped through everyone in the room as the newly married couple just _stood_ there. But Professor McGonagall, a faint smile on her sharp face, saved the day, casting a subtle _wingardium leviosa_ on Cho – not enough to make her float off the ground completely, but both Ron and Cho's eyes widened. Like this, Ron could hold Cho up without any effort, sweeping her around the dance floor with him – if, Hermione thought, Ron were actually capable of _sweeping_, which she knew for a fact he was _not_.

"Thank you, Professor," Cho said with gracious aplomb, bobbing her head, Ron adding his less polished thanks, and Professor McGonagall smiled indulgently at the pair of them. "Well, go on then. What are you waiting for?" she demanded brusquely, and Ron grinned at his wife. "I can't dance, Cho."

"I know _that_," Cho said, grinning back, and pulled his arms around her waist, and Ron holding her steady, all but lifting her off the ground, the bride and groom began their – rather clumsy – first dance together, while everyone watched raptly. Ginny dragged Harry onto the dance floor next, and then Bill and Fleur, then Mr and Mrs Weasley, Cho's mum and dad…almost everyone who had a partner was dancing. Hermione hung back, by the arch, just watching. Remus was awake now, but not well enough to dance, so Tonks sat by him with Teddy in her lap, smiling adoringly at Remus and whispering in his ear. Neville and Luna were dancing, Neville looking terrified and Luna looking transcendently happy, and Angelina appeared to be taking turns dancing with the twins, being whirled from one to the other and laughing softly to herself.

Hermione smiled as she watched it all; there was so little to celebrate these days. With the war it was all worry and stress and death and fear, and there was something so uplifting about seeing everyone leave all that behind, and just celebrate the joyous happiness of the moment. The war couldn't take their lives away from them – they wouldn't let it take all the joy out of life, and it was beautiful to see. Like a slap in Voldemort's face – he might be able to hurt them, but he couldn't take away their spirits.

"Would you like to dance?" a voice came at Hermione's ear, and she glanced up, startled, to see Draco holding out his hand, looking very chivalrous and smart in his silk shirt and dress trousers – rather like the old Malfoy, but without any trace of maliciousness. In fact, there was hint of nervousness in those eyes, which were clear at the moment, the silver starbursts around his pupil catching the lights of the will-o-the-wisps, reflecting all blues and reds. She swallowed hard; she hadn't expected him to want to dance with her. She would have thought it would be too awkward, too painful for them both – that he would just want to slip away and try to forget about the wedding, and what it represented for him and Hermione.

"I'm…not very good at it," she said quietly, as his hand hovered in the air between them, and he bit his lip, _definitely_ nervous, and said, "I'll lead, Hermione…it'll be fine."

She felt unaccountably nervous herself now, too – infected by his nerves, she supposed, but she slipped her hand into his, and let him brace his maimed forearm against her waist, and they danced. A shock and a thrill ran through her as they began – _Ron_ might not be capable of sweeping his partner around the dance floor, but Draco certainly was. His steps were sure and graceful, guiding her with him, not allowing her to misstep or make a fool of herself, and she felt almost like a princess in his arms. Hermione stared up at Draco, at the faint, tight smile on his lips, and the way his pale hair fell over his forehead, and the thin, pointed angles of his face, and her heart swelled, ached.

"It – it was a beautiful wedding," she said hesitantly, trying to make conversation as they waltzed to the music, perfectly in time, his hand warm in hers and his arm firm on her waist. Draco bit his lip, and then nodded, gaze darting away from hers for a moment, and she flinched internally. That had been the wrong thing to say, Hermione supposed. Draco was doing his best to be involved in the day, to make her enjoy it despite his own personal feelings and their relationship issues regarding marriage – she didn't need to rub her dissatisfaction in his face, however indirectly.

"Sorry," she said as he whirled them around, his arms holding her steady and close, bodies nearly touching, a hair's breadth apart.

"Don't – don't be sorry," he tried, looking lost for words, and then smiled at her, a wistful, nervous little twist to his mouth again, acting very _un_like Draco, and Hermione's nerves vibrated with a sudden unease. He cleared his throat. "You – you look very beautiful," he told her earnestly, and she didn't shy from his gaze, although she could feel herself flushing hot. "And you look very handsome," she said, and they were acting so formally it gave Hermione the ridiculous urge to giggle with tearful, shrill hysteria. "I was just thinking how much you look like the _old_ Draco Malfoy," she added, feeling nervous and unnatural, and Draco frowned at her, grimaced a little.

"That's hardly a good thing," he said, sounded all tight and worried, and Hermione smiled at him, pressed a little closer to murmur in his ear like it was a secret, "I always thought you were good-looking, Draco, even when you _were_ an utter prat."

And he smirked at her, absurdly flattered and irritatingly smug, and teased her, "And you got _much_ better looking after you lost the buck teeth."

"_Oh!_" she gasped, half-laughing – a good, pure, thoughtless laugh, and deliberately trod on his toes, making him swear and glare at her, but the frown lacked any substance whatsoever, and she just grinned at him triumphantly.

"Hermione…" His smile disappeared and his tone was suddenly very serious and low, eyes boring into hers. Her own grin faltered and faded away, and her body followed his through the dance steps on automatic. Fear welled up suddenly, inexplicably. "Hermione…today, the wedding…it made me think."

Her heart beat frantically in her chest, and she felt light-headed.

"After the war…I – I can't… I can't…"

No-no-no-_no_. He _couldn't_, Hermione thought wildly, her fingers digging into his hand and his shoulder, her face stark and her chest feeling tight and leaden. He couldn't _do _this to her. Draco cleared his throat and tried again, a pained expression on his face that he wasn't even trying to hide; bare and open and vulnerable, and Hermione wanted to _scream_ at him and flail blindly. He gulped in a deep breath, his eyes silver and grey on hers, storm clouds and stone and ice and quicksilver, and it rushed out of him, guilty and ashamed and afraid.

"I can't be without you." His hand clamped down on hers almost painfully, and their dance steps faltered to a halt, and she stared up at him, hope swelling unbearably. "I can't. I've tried, and tried to…but I _can't_. I'm too fucking _selfish_. If I don't – don't go to Azkaban, then…then…" Draco's voice was desperate. "Marry me. Marry me, Hermione."

Hermione's heart _stopped_, and she felt like she was made out of blown glass, fragile and about to shatter at a mere touch, and she stared at him uncomprehendingly, not _understanding_ for a moment. Unable to take it in.

"…Hermione?" Draco asked in a cool, tight voice all bottled up with fear and Hermione let her breath whoosh out of her in a rush, and she was blinking back the tears that clouded her eyes. "_Yes_. Yes, yes-yes-_yes_," she babbled and then laughed tearfully and flung her arms around his neck, and he was kissing her in the middle of the dance floor in front of _everyone_, and she was crying unashamedly with pure happiness, and everything was just _perfect_.

**# # # # # #**

**We're Here and Now**

_All that shimmers in this world is sure to fade_

_Away again_

_She dreams a champagne dream_

_Strawberry surprise, pink linen and white paper_

_Lavender and cream_

_Fields of butterflies, reality escapes her_

_[Shimmer, Fuel]_

**# # # # # #**

Remus finished congratulating the pair of them, and then, for the moment at least, Draco and Hermione were free of their plague of well-wishers. In retrospect, proposing in front of everyone hadn't been Draco's wisest idea, but then impulsiveness was, by its very nature, not well thought out. But he wouldn't change his impulsive decision for the fucking world. Even if he felt call sick and guilty about what it meant for Hermione, there was an even large part of him that was selfishly ecstatic, and he couldn't deny that Hermione herself was over the bloody moon. She hadn't stopped smiling since she'd accepted his proposal, and she was more radiant even than the bride, her cheeks glowing pink and her firewhiskey eyes bright, filled to the brim with relief and joy and a happiness that made his heart hurt to see.

He looked around, and saw everyone was occupied; dancing, monopolising the bride and groom, socialising, and someone had broken out the drink, because most everyone had a glass of something alcoholic in hand, and talk was flowing fast and free. Draco took her Hermione's hand and tugged, and she looked up at him, all glorious, still-stunned joy tempered by puzzlement.

"What are doing?"

"Escaping while we can."

"Draco…"

"I attended the damn wedding," he said sharply, a faint smile belying his irritated words. "I've done what _you_ wanted –" He let his smile turn into a smirk, creeping over his lips and narrowing his eyes on her, a wicked look that he knew made her melt. "– Now it's time for you to do what _I_ want."

Her mouth made a plump, quivering _o_ that Draco desperately wanted to kiss, and he did so, a light, tantalising brush of his lips over hers.

"Well?" he asked impatiently, tugging at her hand. "Let's _go_, Hermione – before anyone else accosts us."

And she bit her lip and smiled up at him, all coy and breathless and fucking hot as hell with her hair tumbling down her back and that red rose behind her ear, and let him pull her away. They slipped away unnoticed, letting the back door close very quietly behind them, still holding hands, and she followed behind him, her fingers tight around his. By mutual agreement, they went through to the kitchen to nick some of the wedding spread to take upstairs with them, and somehow they ended up snogging up against the kitchen table, heedless of whoever might wander through.

She was warm and soft and all pressed up against him, curves and dips and wanting little moans, and Draco just wanted to bury himself in her, lose himself. He kissed his way down her creamy throat as his hand crept up beneath her dress. Between silky thighs, reaching the thin cotton barrier of her knickers, and peeling them to one side, finding soft, damp warmth and Hermione made a surprised, gasping little noise and wriggled away from him.

"Not _here_," she reprimanded, all aglow with want and embarrassment, "Upstairs."

"The pantry's closer," Draco countered, and half-dragged her with him towards it, she nearly giggling and breathless with the excitement that had infected her since he'd proposed. He dropped her hand and yanked the door open, ready to drag her in by her hair if he had to, and pin her up against the shelves and fuck her thoroughly… And then Hermione gasped and let out a snorting burst of laughter and spun away, covering her eyes and mouth, shoulders shaking as she laughed muffled into her hand. For his part, Draco's lips twitched and then quirked as he held in his own shocked laughter.

"Longbottom," he said, acting very calm and composed – no easy task with Hermione snorting hysterically behind him. Longbottom jerked statue straight and stared at Draco and Hermione, utterly mortified, grabbing the closest large object to him – a packet of cornflakes – and clutching them in front of his crotch. Draco carefully averted his eyes, and cleared his throat, stunned.

"Ah, M – M – Malfoy…" Longbottom stuttered, radiating panic. "Hermione…."

"Er, sorry," Draco said helplessly, unable to stop himself from _staring_ at Longbottom for some reason; it just didn't seem _natural_. Lovegood beamed at Draco as if she hadn't just been caught up against the canned goods with Longbottom latched onto her neck like a leech, and gave him a little, cheery wave. "Hello, Draco. Hello, Hermione – it's nice to see you looking so happy."

Hermione turned around, composing herself with an effort, and her voice was strangled with repressed laughter when she spoke. "Thank you, Luna. Draco – Draco just proposed." Hermione was happiness personified, and Draco couldn't take his eyes off her as Lovegood congratulated them. "Oh how lovely! That's wonderful!" the younger girl cried with sincere pleasure. "Love must be in the air – they do say weddings are good for that don't they? Neville and I are going out, now. He's my _boyfriend_," Lovegood added with satisfaction, casting a fond glance up at Longbottom.

"I can see that," Draco said dryly and Longbottom stuttered and flustered hopelessly, failing to get anything intelligible out.

"Well, ah, sorry to interrupt," Draco said, cutting through Longbottom's irritating embarrassment. "We'll just…leave you two to it."

"Oh – did you need anything?" Lovegood asked helpfully, waving a hand at the pantry shelves, and Hermione burst into another peal of quickly muffled hysterical laughter.

"No, thank you. Nothing at all," Draco said stiffly, and let the door swing shut to the sound of Lovegood calling a bright, "Goodbye!" The girl was bloody mad.

"Come on," Hermione said, and now she was the one dragging _him_ along, her cheeks all flushed pink and her eyes sparkling, and Draco found he couldn't regret proposing to her, no matter how hard he tried to. This was right – possibly the most _right_ thing he'd ever done. Not that _that_ was saying much, to be perfectly truthful. But still. Her hand was tight around his, and her red dress swirled around her gorgeous bloody legs, and she was smiling like Draco had given her the world on a damn platter, and he couldn't regret any of that.

And then they were up the stairs in her room – _their_ room – and with the door shut and locked, Hermione turned to Draco and lifted her face, and he dragged her to him and kissed her, hard. She melted into him, warm and giving, her arms around his neck and her lips were soft and her teeth closed over his lower lip, nibbling and sending thrills down his spine, her tongue lashed teasing over his. Draco's hand was on her cheek, his arm around her waist, and she smelt like roses and want, and she tasted like peppermint, and made little mewling moans against his mouth. He lost himself in the moment, in her, not thinking about anything but that they were happy, and _fuck _she felt so damn good.

Her fingers fumbled at his belt, scrambling to undo it as he kissed her thoroughly, those little moans still murmuring out of her and making his cock almost painfully hard, aching for her. He slid his hand up over the curve of her cheekbone, burying his fingers in her hair, and the rose tucked behind her ear came free and fell unheeded to the floor. His belt came free with a snick of leather and click of metal, and then Hermione was industriously unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers. Draco smiled against her throat, nuzzling it; fingers dragging her head back so he could nip at her pulse point.

"You're eager," he said lazily, and licked a trail across her throat, and she shivered in his arms. "So are you," she said breathily, trying and failing to sound arch, and he smirked, nibbled delicately at her earlobe. "I'm _always_ eager to fuck you, Hermione."

"Oh god…" She bowed out against him, her knees wobbling and weak, and Draco held them both up, his hand sliding from her hair and trailing down her side, creeping beneath the full skirt of her dress. His hand played over her thigh, whispering upwards, his fingers hooking over the side of her cotton knickers and dragging them very, very slowly down her legs.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" he asked her teasingly, a hot murmur in her ear, perfectly composed, and Hermione moaned and her trembling hands yanked his jockey shorts down, letting his cock spring free into her waiting hand. "Yes," she breathed shakily, squeezing his cock and he bit his lip hard and rested his forehead on her shoulder for a moment, struggling to regain control. He found the wet heat of her pussy with his hand, and slid his fingers over slippery folds, tweaking her clit and she swayed and moaned and buried her face against his chest. He played with her, taking his time, holding them both up with his maimed arm, ignoring the pain spiking through the limb in favour of dipping his fingers into her cunt, curling them and making her cry out, thoughtless and instinctive.

"Back," he said, and with his fingers still deep in her, moved them both back toward her bed, tipped her down onto it slowly, still thrusting into her dripping wet cunt and she mewed and moaned and whimpered, skirts up around her waist, on glorious display to him. He stretched half on the bed beside her, resting on one elbow, his other arm stretched down her body, still methodically fucking her, watching her face. Her eyes were squeezed tight shut and her lips were parted, a sheen of arousal on her skin, which was flushed pink, and her fingers clutched blindly at his arm, his shirt, whimpering his name. Crying out, completely unselfconscious, unaware; lost in the pleasure he was wreaking upon her body.

He _wanted_ her. Wanted her so badly, and he was trying to hold out, trying to make it last, take it slow, make it good for her. But as she spasmed and twitched around his fingers, squirming on the bed, gasping his name as if he was the only thing in her universe…Draco couldn't wait any longer. And it was then, just then, that she arched off the bed and let out a helpless, shaking moan as she shattered apart, her cunt seizing around his fingers, her hand clamped iron-tight around his forearm, her toes curling and gasping his name again, garbled and incoherent. Draco wrenched in a breath and pulled his fingers out of her as the spasms dissipated, hooking her up with his maimed arm, rolling onto his back on the bed with her straddling him, her face inches from his, startled and dazed. And without thinking about it, he smeared his fingers over her perfect mouth, made her suck on them, lick them clean, and bolts of white-hot lust shot through him at the sight.

"Fuck. Hermione…_Fuck_."

And she smiled glazedly around Draco's fingers and wiggled her hips, her cunt pressing hot and wet down against the shaft of his cock, and he _needed _to be in her, a strangled moan catching in his throat. He yanked his finger out of her mouth and clasped the swell of her hip, urging her up, and she caught his cock in her slim fingers and guided it into her. She sank down on him, and his cock was suddenly encased in tight, slick heat, and it was fucking _heavenly_ and it was Draco's turn to whimper, clamping his lips down on the sound and jerking his hips up, thrusting into her. She moaned and her head fell back, arms behind her, gripping his thighs, pushing her breasts forward and Draco reached up and yanked the front of it down, fingers sweeping around each of her luscious breasts and scooping them out.

"_Shit_, Hermione…" he said admiringly, breathless as he pushed his hips up and thrust into her, and she looked down at herself, breasts lifted up onto blatant display by the neckline of her dress hooked beneath them, her nipples rosy, dusky pink, and blushed. Draco smirked at her self-consciousness and pinched a nipple, and she lifted herself up, his cock sliding so that only the tip was still in her, and then she sat back down, and the smirk was erased from his face as he bit his lip and moaned.

"Ohh, _fuck, you-feel-so-damn-good_," he got out through gritted teeth, and then his fingers were imprinting, digging into her flesh as he gripped her hip had and fucked her, falling into a rhythm, her cunt unbearably, exquisitely hot and tight around him. Her breasts bounced as she rose and fell on his cock, and Draco wished to Merlin that he had both hands, so he could play with them. Roll her nipples between finger and thumb and make her squeak, cup the soft-firm weight of them… But when he let go of her hip her rhythm faltered and failed, and right now fucking her seemed more important than playing with those pink-tipped breasts.

Her skirt was spread full circle about her in crumpling folds, the hem tickling her chest, and with her breasts displayed and her head fallen back, panting and gasping as they fucked, Hermione looked perfectly, delectably wanton. _Debauched_. Draco couldn't shift his gaze from her as she whimpered and lifted up and down, her hair tumbling in chaotic curls down her back, her face pink-flushed, and eyes tightly shut, focusing on the sensations, her dark brows scrunched together. Draco came hard, driving deep into her, spilling himself inside her, a shuddering groan slipping past clenched teeth, the pleasure ripping through him and sweeping him away in its wake.

Afterward, catching his breath – she sprawled on top of him, her bare breasts pressed against his chest, her chin pillowed on the back of her hand, looking at him intently – Draco stared into those satisfied firewhiskey eyes and smiled at her. _I love you_, he thought, but instead what came out was, "Merlin you're a good fuck." She snorted and hid her face against his chest, shoulders shaking with weak laughter. "I love you," she told him, peeking up at him, and he smoothed his hand over her previously-immaculate curls – now a tangled mess.

"Me too. But then you know that already."

"I like hearing it," she said, raising an eyebrow and _waiting_, and Draco gave in. Rolled his eyes, but said very quietly, "I love you, Hermione Granger."

"Mm," she hummed, a satisfied, contented little noise, and laid her cheek on his chest, her hand sliding idly up and down his arm.

"You can't take it back, you realise? She said after a while, a little nervously.

"What? That I love you?"

"That you'll marry me," she said and glared at him drowsily, and he felt his stomach flip as she said the words – his insides squirmed, all nervousness, excitement and fear. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"You _can't_," Hermione repeated as Draco was too slow to answer her, and he tipped his mouth in a slight smile. "I won't," he reassured her, adding with wry humour, "I'm too selfish to do that, remember?"

"You swear?" She sat up, slithering off him and rearranging her dress, her breasts disappearing from view, her face very serious.

"I swear that if – _if_ – I don't go to Azkaban…then yes, I will marry you."

"You won't go to Azkaban," she said firmly, determinedly, and Draco could see that she more than half-believed it – and he was actually letting himself hope that he might not, too. After all, he wouldn't have proposed to her if he hadn't thought there was a good chance he'd get off without time in Azkaban. The Order was going to speak for him, and although that wasn't an assurance of his freedom, it made his freedom pretty fucking probable.

"We don't know that yet, Hermione," he cautioned her despite his hopes, and she frowned at him, sitting tailor-fashion beside him now and absently smoothing her skirt over her legs.

"Draco…"

"I just don't want you getting your hopes up too much, Hermione." He swallowed around the lump in his throat and looked away. "Don't want either of us getting our hopes up too much. We still don't know what's going to happen after the war – or if we'll even see the end of the war or if we'll win…" It all came crowding into his head – all the dire possibilities, al the worst case scenarios, and for a second he wondered how he could have been so stupid as to promise to marry Hermione – even conditionally – when so much was uncertain.

"Stop it!" she snapped, breaking him out of his downward spiralling thoughts with a start. "Stop it. Today is meant to be a _happy_ day. Today, I am going to be _happy_. Ron and Cho have gotten married, I've been proposed to, and the mission is going to go wonderfully, perfectly." She shot him a beseeching look. "Please, Draco. Just…" Her hand slipped into his, warm and small and slim. "Just give me this, today?"

"Today is a happy day," he repeated obediently, adding with a dry tilt to his words, "Today, I will be as _sickeningly_ happy as you want me to be." He flashed her a quick smirk, pushed himself up and kissed her mouth light and impulsive. "…For a price…"

She pinked, nodded ever-so-slightly. "Er, fair enough." And then she climbed over him off the bed and hunted up a clean pair of knickers, shooting him a look as she wriggled them on and then set about trying to restore some order to her hair and dress. "Well then…come on, let's go back down to the party, and _enjoy_ ourselves."

"Damnit," Draco groaned, flopping his arm over his eyes and making no move to get up. Something unexpectedly poked him in a particularly ticklish spot on his side, and he flapped his hand blindly in the air, groaned again. "_Fine_ then, hold up – I'm fucking coming, just give me a minute for Merlin's sake. Bloody bossy witch, Merlin knows why I put up with you…" He added under his breath, and jumped and oof-ed with surprise as Hermione thumped him softly on the stomach, and Draco snagged her hand, yanked her down to him and kissed her again, kneading her arse under her skirts and making her squeal, feeling unaccountably light-hearted.

**# # # # # #**

They mingled downstairs, in the gazebo with the entire wedding party, Draco with a glass of firewhiskey in hand and Hermione sipping Muggle champagne and watching the people. Everyone was bright and bubbling, drinking and dancing, and having loud conversations about happy things and hopes, a sort of _last fling_ kind of feeling hanging in the air amongst the will-o-the-wisps flitting beneath the gazebo's gauzy rood. In two days time a good portion of the people here would be storming Gringotts, and no one knew how many of them would come back alive, or unwounded. No one knew if they'd succeed in retrieving the horcrux, and right now everyone was working very hard on trying not to think about it. There were other more important things at hand right now.

But still, the reality of war couldn't be erased, just denied for a while, and there was a brittle fragility to the carousing that was proof of the war, and its indelible stamp on peoples' lives. Remus was looking pale still, and weak, and wouldn't be well enough to come on the Gringotts' mission – something he was deeply disappointed over, feeling it was his duty to go, that he was _needed_. Tonks was glad, though. Hermione sat with her as the new mother fed Teddy in a quiet corner, and Tonks admitted her relief that Remus wouldn't be able to go, especially being so soon after the Russian mission.

"I just feel so bloody selfish," Tonks admitted, latching Teddy onto a nipple and wincing as the baby clamped down. Hermione tried not to stare, looking just over Tonks' shoulder at the lowering sun over the neighbour's roof – it was coming up on late afternoon now, and the party was still going. Hermione had the feeling it wouldn't be grinding to a halt until the late evening; the Order members were making the most of the excuse to let down their hair and celebrate.

"You're not selfish, Tonks. You've got Teddy to think about now, it's not just you. Of course you don't want Remus to put himself in danger. It's not selfish."

Tonks smiled at Hermione affectionately and brightly. "'Course it is, Hermione. But thanks anyway." The older witch looked over towards Remus, who looked frail in the wake of his poisoning, and the look on her face made Hermione's heart twinge. "I think I can live with being selfish. Not that I'm proud of it."

"I'd rather Draco wasn't going tomorrow," Hermione admitted, a confession for a confession, an equal exchange. "It's frightening, to think…god, Diagon Alley, where there will be _so many_ Death Eaters and their sympathisers, and not knowing how well the gas will work, or if we can _imperio_ a goblin to get into the vault, or how we'll get back out…" She heaved a breath and stared at her fizzing flute of champagne. "I'm terrified. I'm only going because Draco volunteered, and I won't let him go without me."

"You're very brave."

"Not really," Hermione denied quietly. "No, not at all. Cho's braver than I am, Neville, Harry, and Ron…Draco. I'm the one who _isn't_ brave out of everyone. The one who hid away from the war for so long after what happened at the manor, while other, better, braver people were out there fighting and dying for me."

Tonks gave her a _look_. "You're braver than you know, Hermione."

It was so strange to hear Tonks say that, and Hermione just shrugged, not knowing what to say in response, feeling like a fraud, despite the bubble of flattered pleasure Tonks' kind compliment gave her.

Shortly afterward, she was caught up by Ginny, and then Cho joined them, and the two other girls gushed to Hermione about how _romantic_ the proposal had been, and how they'd never seen Malfoy _look_ like that, almost as if he was _human_, and they were so happy for Hermione. They sat, all three of them together in a private little corner down by the wedding arch, sipping at champagne and getting pleasantly tipsy, and talking about ordinary, normal girly things – and for once, Hermione enjoyed that greatly. She didn't know if it was the champagne, or having been proposed to – being _engaged_ – but this was one of the rare occasions when the girl-talk was welcomed. Eventually, Ginny couldn't resist asking slyly _what _had happened to Hermione's hair, and Cho chimed in by inquiring where the rose had gone to, and why was Hermione's dress crumpled, and Ginny queried archly as to _where_ Hermione and Draco had disappeared off to earlier, and what _had _they been doing…

And it was about then, that, blushing furiously, Hermione made some prim excuses about needing to go to the loo, and fled the two other witches. She slipped away to the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face and use a quick charm to get the rumples out of her dress, and took a few moments to collect herself – she felt glowing and a little unsteady, and thought the champagne had gone to her head quicker than she'd thought it would. She leaned forward, hands planted on the cool tiles of the bathroom counter, and stared at herself. Tumbles of dark hair somewhere between artfully messy and just plain _messy_, alcohol-flushed cheeks, and sparkling eyes set in bruised shadows that just never went away these days, and while she wasn't thin – _definitely_ not thin – she looked worn away somehow, to her eyes, anyway. Haggard. But happy.

And Draco was waiting for her outside of the bathroom, a half-empty glass of firewhiskey in hand and a molten look in his eyes, and he kissed her up against the wall, all drunken, muddled delight. And then he pulled back a little, swilled his glass and put it down on the end table by the bathroom door, bracing his hand on the wall by her head, standing close enough that she could feel his body heat.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked her, a wicked look in his eyes, and Hermione nodded speechlessly, feeling all twisted up in the moment, headily, tipsily, _dizzily_ happy. "Yes, I am, actually," she told him with a satisfied smile. "Are you?"

"Of course not," he said straight-faced, and Hermione gave him a _look_. "I _can_ see you out there, you know. Standing around with Harry and Dean and Seamus, totally absorbed in whatever it is you boys talk about…"

"And hating every bloody minute of it," he rejoined, lips twitching a little, poker face cracking.

"You're slipping, Draco – I can tell you're lying," Hermione informed him teasingly, going up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, her hands coming up to rest on his shoulders, thin and warm through the silk of his shirt.

"I'm rather drunk, actually," he admitted, tilting his head back a little to let her kiss her way along his jaw. "I've never been that skilled at lying when I'm pissed." She lifted her gaze to his face, lips still at his jaw, and saw his gaze slant down to hers, his mouth curve gently. "It's a failing," he said dryly, and then brought his hand up to fit against the side of her neck, and captured her lips, kissing her with a contained intensity that made her fresh knickers get damped, her knees go weak, and he tasted like firewhiskey. The scent of the alcohol seared through her senses, and his tongue tasted of the fiery burn of it, and she felt the hallway swirl around her, swaying into him bonelessly.

Truffle coming through to use the loo broke them apart after a heated moment though, and they returned to the party, Hermione blushing and flustered and Draco smug, whistling softly to himself and smirking. Hermione saw that Mrs Weasley had laid out an afternoon tea in lieu of a proper lunch, it being half two already, and she piled up a plate with food, finding a seat by Fred, George and Angelina as Draco went in search of more firewhiskey. She anticipated he was going to spend most of the afternoon in drunken banter with the other boys, and she didn't mind; it was nice just to watch him. Fred handed Angelina a heaped plate, and she smiled her thanks up at him.

"So, Hermione… You and Malfoy are going to tie the ol' knot, huh?" Fred fished, taking the Muggle beer his twin offered with a nod and a grin.

"Mm," Hermione said around a bite of a little savoury, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth, "After the war, at any rate. Not any time soon."

"You two make a good couple," Angelina offered, sipping her glass of juice and shooting a longing glance at Hermione's refill of champagne, and Hermione's thoughts ticked suspiciously over for a moment.

"Bloody strange, though. Our Hermione and Draco bloody Malfoy, of all people," George said, shaking his head as though confused by the state of the world. Hermione just smiled to herself and took another bit of her savoury, eyes on Draco who had his glass of firewhiskey in hand, and was gesturing animatedly at Dean. They appeared to be debating about _something_, but what exactly, Hermione couldn't hear over the music.

"You're just annoyed that I won the bet," Angelina said smugly, giving George a triumphant smirk, and Hermione's head jerked up. "Bet? What bet?"

"Oh, come off it, Angie, that was a fluke and you know it." George protested, ignoring Hermione, Fred finishing, "You had no _idea _they were going to bloody well get together."

"Oh, didn't I?" Angelina asked archly, pushing her food around her plate pickily and wrinkling her nose up at a bite-sized fish pie, popping a piece of custard tart in her mouth and making an _mm_ of enjoyment. Hermione listened to the threesome argue lightly with intrigued amusement, ever so faintly annoyed – but hardly surprised – that she and Draco had been the subject of betting.

"No you _didn't_."

"I had eyes – I saw how often Hermione was going down to see Draco. There's no _way_ she would have done that if there hadn't been something _romantic_ between them."

George scoffed at that, but Hermione jabbed her fork in his direction. "She was right, though," she pointed out, taking Angelina's side and playing along, despite her slight embarrassment at the memory of how embarrassing it had been to find out that so many people knew about her and Draco, while she had thought it was still mostly a secret.

"It was a fluke," Fred insisted decidedly, and sculled the remainder of his beer. "Another, Georgie?"

"Please, Fred," George nodded, handing the empty to his twin and sitting beside Angelina, wrapping his arm comfortably around her, and Hermione couldn't help noticing the fondness in Fred's face as he glanced down at Angelina and his twin before heading off with the two empties.

The sun was sinking below the horizon as Hermione sat with Draco, Harry, Ron, Cho and Ginny, the six of them drinking steadily, watching the sunset and talking about nothing in particular. They sprawled on the grass in a corner of the gazebo, Cho sitting leaning against Ron, his arm around her, Ginny nestled between Harry's legs, resting her head back against his shoulder and his arms clasped around her waist, and Hermione sitting beside Draco, her arm looped through his maimed one, snugged up against his side. It was restful and peaceful, and it felt _right_, the six of them, just as the trio of her, Harry, and Ron had once felt right.

People had started drifting off as sunset had begun, and the gazebo was populated rather sparsely now now. Tonks and Remus had taken Teddy off to bed, and not come back out, and Kingsley had disappeared a while ago. Neville and Luna had vanished again, and Hermione suspected they'd snuck off to snog again. Dean and Seamus had moved the party inside, drinking and playing a Muggle movie, and Cho had seen _Charlie Weasley_ and Madeleine Dubois-Volkov snogging around the side of the house beneath a tree. Mrs Weasley was clearing away the food with Professor McGonagall's help, and Mr Weasley, Bill, and Fleur were sitting and talking quietly.

Ron was chatting with Harry about Quidditch, but they both stopped as Ginny said, "_Look!_" in a loud whisper. They all stared as Fred kissed Angelina lightly on the mouth by the back porch. "Night, Angie," he said with a grin, and clapped his twin on the shoulder, murmured something in his ear before wandering off to join Mr Weasley, Bill and Fleur. Hermione and the other five watched intently as George hooked his arm around Angelina's waist and whispered something in her ear that made her giggle, and thump him affectionately. And then they went up the stairs and inside together, and no one had to guess what _they_ were going to go and do.

"Merlin's balls that's just fucking _wrong_," Ron said, making a horrified, disgusted face, and Draco snorted quietly, grinning with great amusement at Ron's discomfort. "Shut up, Malfoy," Ron growled and glared at Draco, and Hermione leaned her head on his shoulder, her arm linked tightly through his. "It makes sense, I suppose, in a strange sort of way," she said, trying to placate Ron, but he just screwed up his face even more.

"Huh. Well, try telling mum that," he said, with a sidelong glance at Molly Weasley, who had very deliberately ignored the little exchange between her sons and Angelina, but was thumping the plates together with rather more force than necessary as she finished stacking them up. "Or on second thoughts, _don't_."

"She better start getting used to it," Ginny said, more accepting of the odd threesome than her older brother, although Hermione knew the girl didn't like thinking too closely about the dynamics of the odd relationship. "It doesn't look like this is a temporary thing." The auburn-haired witch waggled her eyebrows and grinned, all knowing and smug.

"I was noticing that myself," Hermione said meaningfully, at the same time as Cho said, "I thought so!", and the three witches gave each other knowing looks, while Ron and Harry stared at each other in confusion, and Draco smirked at the pair of them.

"I get the feeling you're getting at something specific…" Ron said slowly, brow all furrowed in bewilderment, and Cho giggled, and Ginny grinned, and Draco rolled his eyes at Ron. "You really don't see it, Weasley?" Ron shook his head, looking annoyed, and Draco turned to Harry. "Potter?"

"No bloody idea, Malfoy."

"She's pregnant!" Ginny burst out, as though she was unable to keep it in any longer, and Ron stared at his sister in horror. "_No._"

"I bet you a galleon," Ginny said, nodding, and Ron shook his head. "No way. No bloody way."

"Well, to be fair, we don't _know_," Cho said, with a reassuring pat to Ron's shoulder, and he clutched at that desperately. "Exactly, we don't _know_. You're probably just imagining things."

"I wonder if they'd even know who the father was," Draco said idly, and Hermione could tell he was just trying to stir up Ron – and succeeded, of course. She and Cho ended up refereeing, while Draco and Ron tried to peel verbals strips off each other, and they all grew drunker and drunker.

As night truly fell and the stars came out, Bill and Fleur went home, and Mr and Mrs Weasley took down the gazebo and went up to bed, Charlie and Madeleine disapparated; _everyone_ dispersed. Shortly afterwards, Ginny helped Cho up to her and Ron's room, to help the bride change out of her wedding dress, and Ron promised to be up shortly – "One last beer, Cho, please?"

"One," Cho said firmly, lifting an eyebrow. "Just the one, though. It _is _our wedding night." Ron went a shade of red that clashed with his hair and grinned, nodded. "_Promise_. Cross my heart."

"You come up when he does too, Harry, all right?" Ginny ordered, and Harry nodded obediently, cracking the cap off his last beer. And then there were four; Hermione, Harry, Ron and Draco, standing under the cloudless, clear night sky, staring up at it and quietly drinking.

"Well. I'm pissing off then," Draco said a while later. "Night Potter, Weasley." He paused and smiled at Hermione, "Remember – you still owe me," he said pointedly, and Hermione blushed. "I remember," she said with an edge of sharpness, embarrassed, and went up on tiptoes to kiss him. "I'll be up soon-ish. I just want to do a few things in the kitchen first. Give me an hour or so?"

Draco gave her a funny look, but nodded and left, and then it was just the three of them. The Golden Trio. Hermione sandwiched by Harry and Ron, and she smiled up at each of them in turn, a tremulous, hopeful expression. Looking for reassurance. "We'll be all right, won't we?" She thought of the mission to Gringotts, and the war, and each of their relationships – she thought of the future in general, unknown and unknowable, a vast expanse of possibilities stretching out in front of them.

"Better than all right, 'Mione," Ron declared. "We'll be fucking amazing." He slung his arm around her shoulders, a little wobbly on his feet, and swigged at his beer, gazing at the night sky, a dark drift of wisping cloud sweeping across it, obscuring the sliver of moon for a brief moment.

"Do you really think so?" Hermione asked, leaning into Ron and sighing. She looked up at the twinkling points of starlight and the drift of fluffy cloud sweeping over the moon, and wished she knew how everything was going to turn out. Hoping – and tonight it was _easy_ to hope – that everything would be wonderful, and perfect, and it would all turn out the way she wanted.

"'Course we will," Harry said determinedly, all bright optimism, and slung _his_ arm around her shoulders, the three of them standing there all laced together, like it seemed they always had been. They were inextricably entwined, despite their respective partners, and the different directions their lives would surely take, after the war. And they always would be entwined, in the end, Hermione thought, leaning her head on Ron's shoulder and gazing up at the stars as the boys drank their beers. Everything would be okay. She knew it.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **So, my big question for this chapter – what did you think of the proposal?! I MUST KNOW. Did you like it? Did you expect it or was it like, ohmigod SURPRISING? Was it in character for both of them? Was it awesome? Did you like the wedding in general? Good smut? Please review and let me know!

Fred and George's relationship with Angelina is just my silly bit of fun, but it also just makes sense to me – doesn't it make sense to you? I like the idea of them being all scandalous and horrifying their mother, and making it awkward for everyone else, hehe, and feel like it fits.

This was sort of a...winding up kind of chapter? Everyone's getting ready for the Gringotts' mission, with only one more day left before it, so they're making the most of the day, just in case they don't come back – that sort of thing.

Cho's parents – the Romanised Chinese name 'Ge' is my sister-in-law's name, and 'Han' is part of my nephew's Chinese name, both of which I have borrowed for the purposes of the story :)

Well, on the next – and final – chapter of _The Risk-Reward Ratio_; the mission. And then after that…on toward the sequel, _The Just World Fallacy!_

† The Wedding Vow is Latin, thanks to good ol' Google Translate, and roughly translates to: "Two bodies entwined, two spirits entwined, two minds entwined, to be still two, but inextricably linked by the bonds of this vow."


	45. Finale, Part One: Don't Stop

Author's Note: As always, thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed! I can't believe how many I got last chapter – I'm so over the moon and ecstatic! And I'm sorry I haven't replied to you individually yet – I've been glued to the computer, frantically writing out the last chapter…which I have decided to split into two, seeing as this first half is so long. So this is not the last chapter – there is yet one more to come, before we move on to the sequel. Please forgive the typos, my proofread was rushed :)

A quick note for clarity's sake – the 'Belonging and Birthdays' sections are the day before the Gringotts mission, on Draco's birthday, the 'Of War' sections are the mission itself, and the 'A Memory Out of Time' sections are set at an unspecified point in the future, but are mostly remembering events that have happened in the story.

I hope you enjoy!

**# # # # # #**

Don't Stop

_I hope_

_Do you wanna let go?_

_Do you wanna this time?_

_I hope you wanna let go_

'_Cause this is home_

_[This is Home, Blink 182]_

**# # # # # #**

_Belonging and Birthdays I_

_He woke up to Hermione's mouth around his cock and her hands soft and firm on his thighs, her tongue laving up the shaft of his morning erection, and closing around the head, sucking. She was a shape under the blankets, and Draco smiled and found her head beneath the blankets, hand twining in her hair, his eyes still shut, making a humming sound of approval. It was a fitting way to wake on his eighteenth birthday, he thought dreamily, tensing and groaning as she took all of him into her mouth, sucking and swallowing around his cock. Not that she could know that it __**was **__his birthday – there was no point in celebrating it. He wasn't a child anymore, and all a birthday was anyway, was just another day, and no one but Hermione would care about Draco Malfoy's birthday. So there had been no point in telling her, or anyone else._

"_Fuck, Hermione…oh damnit…" Draco got out in a strangled gasp, thoughts shattered as she choked on his cock, gagging, throat convulsing around his cock, and his hips snapped up and she choked again and pulled back. Her hand stayed on his cock though, sliding up and down, slicked with her saliva, and Draco shoved the blanket back and unveiled her. She grinned up at him, lips all swollen and reddened, and cheeks flushed. "Happy birthday, Draco," she said breathlessly, and pressed her lips against the head of his cock in a strangely tender kiss. What? _

"_What?" he asked her blankly, thinking he mustn't have woken up after all, he must still be asleep, and having a wet dream for the first time in bloody months._

"_Happy eighteenth birthday," she said again, hand still twisting up and down his cock, smiling smugly at him, all bright eyes and tangled hair, in a thin tee-shirt and pyjama shorts. Draco struggled up onto his elbows, staring down at her, not quite frowning. "How the __**hell**__ did you…?"_

"_It's a secret," she said primly, and smirked at him, and Draco wondered if his smirks infuriated __**her**__ as much as hers infuriated him. He frowned at her properly now, mind still all fuzzed over by sleep and her blowjob, and not working properly. "One of the Professors told you…?"_

"_Nope," she said, popping her lips on the 'p' and still smirking insufferably at his apparent stupidity._

"_Bloody well __**tell**__ me, Hermione." It irritated Draco not to know how she'd found out, for some reason. He hadn't wanted her to know. Hadn't wanted a big deal made out of it. Hadn't wanted…he'd wanted to keep something to himself, some distance. Something that she didn't know, that kept him apart, ever so slightly. "Don't be so childish," he scolded her sulkily, knowing he was probably being childish himself but not caring, because that was __**different**__._

"_**Childish?**__ Is that what you __**really**__ want to call this?" she asked coyly and filled her mouth with his cock again, and Draco's head fell back and his mind spun helplessly as her tongue and lips did delicious things to him. "No, probably not," he said with breathless pleasure a few minutes later, fingers all twisting around in Hermione's hair again and dragging her up his body, the sun slanting through the gap in the curtains and lighting her with the early glow. "But honestly, __**how**__ did you find out?"_

"_I'll never tell," Hermione teased him, straddling his hips, her hands on his shoulders, rubbing her pussy lightly against his erection, kissing a wet, nibbling path along his jaw. Draco's hand came up to grip one soft, curving arse cheek and he grinned wickedly at her as he lifted her up and sank her back down on his cock __**hard**__, groaning at the tight, slick heat of her. "We'll see about that," he threatened her, bumping his hips up and thrusting into her hard, prompting a moan to thread from that plump mouth of hers. _

"_I have ways and means of making you talk," Draco added in a strained, teasing voice, smirking wickedly at her. He snapped his hips up, cock driving into her cunt and eliciting another choked moan from her lips, and he felt ridiculously proud of himself as she panted for breath and moaned, clung to him with frantic, desperate fingers. He kissed her, his mouth capturing hers and tongue dipping between her parted lips, and he felt her shiver, grind down onto his cock with a mewl, and Draco thought that maybe it was nice she knew it was his birthday after all, if this was what he got as a birthday present._

**# # # # # #**

Of War I

"You feeling okay, 'Mione?" Ron asked as he stuck his head through her bedroom doorway, finishing buckling his Auror leathers on, and Hermione nodded weakly, feeling ill and horribly nervous, and not ready for this mission in the slightest. She wanted to run away and hide. "Yes. I'm fine, just a little nervous I guess," she said in a thin voice as Ron wandered into the room, staring intently down at her, and then he clapped her on the shoulder. Drew her into a tight, squashing hug, and then let her go abruptly, and finished doing up his vambrace and checked his wand holster. "We'll be fine, 'Mione. It'll go off without a hitch." His blue eyes met hers sharply and filled with the fires of certainty. "You have to believe that," he told her, and she nodded, managed a weak smile. "I know, Ron. I do believe it."

"Well, I better go say 'bye to Cho," he said, and strode from her room with his spine straight and chin up, confidence in every step, not a trace of doubt of fear to him, and Hermione was so envious of his bravery. She turned back to securing her own damn leathers, which she'd never gotten used to buckling and lacing despite wearing them so often. She swore with annoyance at a recalcitrant rerebrace, forehead all furrowed up in a frown as she tried to jab the strap through the little metal buckle. A hand covered hers, still her angry movements, and then Draco was helping hold the buckle up for her, so she could slip the strap through and pull it tight.

"Thanks," Hermione said, trying not to let her voice shake, but Draco knew her, and he knew how scared she was right now. He gulped hard himself, throat clicking dryly, grey eyes slipping away from hers, and she knew then that he was afraid too. She wondered if he was afraid for her, or himself, or both of them. She suspected any fear that Draco had was for her, not himself. Hermione's safety appeared to be one of the few areas of Draco's life that he allowed his facade – or reality, more likely – of selfishness to slip away. She stood watching the sharp lines of his face, all set grim and expressionless, neither of them saying a word as he tested the fit of her leathers, making sure everything was secured properly with nervous, worried little movements.

He was fussing, Hermione thought with a curl of amusement; it didn't seem to fit with Draco's character somehow. _Fussing_ was something Mrs Weasley did, but here Draco was, clucking his tongue disapprovingly over the looseness of her right vambrace. "You have to make sure everything is on _properly_, Hermione," he said with tight anger, and she let the emotion slide off her – it wasn't aimed at her, not really. He was just worried. "Sorry," was all that she said, and his head jerked up from his fiddling with her buckles and straps, to give her a startled, wide-eyed look. She didn't normally capitulate or admit fault so easily.

"Good," Draco snapped, prickly with his worry and refusing to let that fear out – and she knew the feeling. She was keeping all her terror bottled tightly up, clutching it to herself like a badly kept secret, a precious bundle, because she was afraid if she let it out it would swamp her. She'd drown in it. She needed to keep it together, or she'd be useless on this mission. And Hermione needed to be there, because Draco was going, and she couldn't let him go without her. He had a tendency to drop his guard on his right, thanks to his new left-handed duelling, and she needed to be there at his right, protecting his flank. And Harry would be there, and Ron, and it just didn't seem right that everyone would be going, while she stayed _here_.

"Weasley's right – you have to believe it. You can't go in all muddled up with doubts, Hermione. You'll just get yourself killed."

"I know that after this war, I'm going to marry you," she said firmly, staying his flustered, fussing hand and interlocking their fingers, putting her other hand on his shoulder and stepping in close to him. "Whether you like it or not," she added and he smirked at that, squeezed her hand a little tighter. "So you can bet I believe we'll be okay. We have to be. There's no way in hell this marriage isn't going to happen, now that you've finally surrendered to the inevitability."

"Oh, inevitability, was it?" he queried, arching an eyebrow at her, and she grinned, trying to seize the moment of calm before the storm, and savour it.

"Of course. I'm Hermione Granger – I can out-stubborn even _you_, and I did. So there." She did everything but stamp her foot, and he seemed greatly amused by her childish pique.

"I might change my mind…" he teased her straight-faced, a dangerous little purr to his words, as if he really _would_, and Hermione shivered and pressed in closer to him, leather against leather, but he was warm through it all, and he smelt so good, like home and soap and sex and _Draco_. He belonged to her, and she to him, and they'd tried being apart but it hadn't worked, and she knew he would never leave her so long as she told him to stay. He couldn't help himself – he was too _selfish_, he said, and if that was selfishness then Hermione was horribly selfish too, and she didn't _care_. She wanted him, and she would have him, and that was that. End of story.

"You _can't_, you _swore_," she said, firmly, and he smirked at her, that generous, expressive mouth tipping up at one corner. "I'm a Slytherin, Hermione. Why in Merlin's name would you believe I'd keep my word?" he said with a lazy, smug tone, and she narrowed her eyes at him, still playing, and it was just her and him, alone, and nothing else existed. And Merlin, he was _irritating_ like no one else could be. She couldn't think of a comeback, and she huffed at him grumpily and batted him on the shoulder with the heel of her hand, and he snorted at her impotent fury, kissed her mouth, sucking on her lower lip and then pulling back. He looked down at her, with a taut fear that he covered very, very badly, today, clear in his eyes as they caught the sunlight.

"We'll be all right," she said, waiting for him to confirm it, and he did, jerking off a sharp nod. "We'll be fine, Hermione. Get in, gas everyone, retrieve the horcrux, and get out." His voice was crisp and hard, eyes far away, and she knew he was picturing the mission unfolding perfectly, like clockwork in his mind. "It'll be easy."

"That's what you said about Russia, and we all nearly died" she blurted out stupidly before she could stop herself, and Draco went utterly still. Stared at her, his mission face on – cold and hard and very, very dangerous – and said, "That was Russia." He slid his hand from hers as if her touch unnerved him, stepped back from her, retreating defensively, and she could barely see the memory of how close they'd come to death in Russia in his face, but she _could_ see it. Draco swallowed hard and lifted his chin sharply, stared at her for a silent, awkward moment, and then said with jerky precision, "I'm going downstairs."

There was nothing she could say, so she just nodded and sat down on the edge of her bed as he walked out, knees feeling suddenly weak, and his fear frightened her. It wasn't going to be simple. It wasn't going to be easy, and they all knew it. And Draco was terrified for her. That she was going to die. Hermione felt dizzy and ill, and she clamped down on the nausea, teeth grinding together. They had to believe it.

**# # # # # #**

A Memory Out of Time I

**The first time Draco had ever been afraid for her, that Hermione remembers, was at the manor. In his own home, his family around him. The perfect pure blood, gazing down at the filthy Mudblood whore, and looking so horrified by what his aunt was doing to her. She remembers the tears glinting in his eyes, and she remembers hating him for daring to cry them. But even back then, so long ago when she'd been **_**Granger**_** and he'd been **_**Malfoy**_**, and they had despised each other, he'd still been afraid for her. He'd still cared enough to let her escape, despite the consequences he **_**knew**_** would be inflicted upon him for his failure to bring Hermione to Voldemort. **

**He'd lost his fingers for that small act of mercy, and Hermione thinks now that maybe **_**that**_** was when it began. Hermione suspects that when Draco spoke **_**Releshio**_**, it was the one word that had changed everything. Maybe **_**that**_** was when they had become connected, inextricably. When it all began. When he saw her bleeding and ruined on the floor of the manor, when Voldemort tore away his fingers for his mercy, and, later, when she discovered that he had suffered for her. Maybe there had never been any other possible path but them being together, after that. She doesn't know if this is the truth, but it's a good thought to hold onto, right now. It helps with the fear.**

**# # # # # #**

Of War II

They appeared in Diagon Alley with a crack, and Hermione tried to shake off the nausea fast, gritting her teeth and breathing hard, swaying on her feet. Draco's hand grabbed her elbow and she shook it off, furious with him for it. "Grab your _fucking_ wand," she snapped, so _angry_ that he would put his safety at stake by choosing to lend her support that she _shouldn't_ need, rather than arm himself. He shot her a look, startled, but grabbed his wand, waggled it at her. "I'm all right, Hermione." He looked into her eyes, and she almost believed him. "It's going to be fine. Just keep your head, all right?" She nodded, and tried to smile, and he pressed his nose and forehead down against hers, a brief kiss of a strange sort, and then Kingsley's booming voice split the Alley.

"Let's go, come on, people, _go, go, __**go**_."

She ran with the others the hundred metres or so to Gringotts, keeping up despite her foggy head and wobbly legs, ignoring the stares of the curious or startled wizards and witches on the sparsely populated street as the Order team rushed past them. Her wand was in hand, her boots were pounding the cobbles, her breath rasping in her lungs, and then they were at Gringotts, at the base of the steps in front of the impressive building. They cast bubbleheads on themselves, and made sure their gasmasks were secured properly as well, as back-up to the bubbleheads _just in case_, and stared around at each other briefly. They all looked alien to Hermione's eyes with the heavy black gasmasks on, and she gulped, steadied her nerves with an iron will. It wouldn't be good to vomit with _this_ on.

"Go!" Kingsley ordered again, and they took the stairs two at a time, Johns and Kingsley slamming through the doors, and Hermione and the others pouring in behind. Fred, George, Mr Weasley, Truffle, Draco, Neville, Ron, and Harry twisted the gas canisters filled with Kolokol-1 open, and flung them down the long room, as Kingsley, Johns, Professor McGonagall, Dean, and Seamus secured the doors of Gringotts against unwelcome Death Eater reinforcements. Hermione had her own job.

She ran to the nearest goblin and grabbed him by the high, stiff collar, wrenching him out of his seat and casting the bubblehead charm on him. And then she faltered. She cast an _incarcerous_ to buy her time, staring down at the goblin and unsure if she could cast the _imperio_ on him. And then Draco's voice said, "_Imperio_," crisp and cold as ice and for a moment Hermione was thrown back into the past; when he had always sounded like that, and had called her Mudblood, and knocked her books out of her hands, and laughed at her when she'd gone down on her hands and knees to collect them up, holding back her angry tears.

"Thanks," she told him numbly, automatically, and released her _incarcerous_, and Draco nodded, white and strained and sickened, and she wondered if he was remembering Madame Rosemerta, and suddenly thought how _awful_ that year must have been for him. She straightened and scanned the room; almost everyone was going down as the gas hissed out – swaying and toppling, goblins littering the floor like the sprinkles on Draco's birthday cake yesterday. But there were a handful of wizards and witches who had bubbleheads up in time and angry faces, mostly already engaged in battle with the other Order members. One of them was standing quite close to Hermione and Draco, and swaying on his feet, and the world seemed to move in slow motion as he slashed his wand at them and shouted, "_Diffindo!_"

Hermione reacted on instinct, shoving Draco to the side, bringing her wand up and sending a silent _repulso_ at the wizard, sending him flying across the room to smash into another enemy wizard. She bit her tongue as the wizard's _diffindo_ sliced into her arm, straight through her Auror leathers. She scrambled to her feet shaking and frantic, checking her arm – it wasn't deep, although the blood was running freely. If she hadn't been wearing her leathers the wizard's curse would have cut straight through the bone, though, and she shuddered at the thought. She flicked her wand at another witch who was duelling Fred and George, and took the woman down with a _stupefy_, and then everything fell silent.

"Are we clear?" Kingsley called, and everyone looked around anxiously, and finding no one else awake except for themselves and the goblin Draco had used the _Imperius_ on, relaxed.

"We are," Professor McGonagall called crisply, and waved her wand, setting another locking charm on Gringotts' main doors, to make sure the enemy couldn't get in when they realised what had happened – which they surely already had. Some of the witches and wizards in Diagon Alley who had seen the Order storm the building must be Death Eater sympathisers, and they would have informed them. Luckily for them, Gringotts already had anti-apparition wards set about it, so the only way in were the barricaded doors. "You had better hurry." Professor McGonagall said briskly, "We'll remain here and hold the doors for you."

"Good luck," Kingsley said to the Professor, striding over to Hermione and Draco, looking deadly dangerous and hard as stone, and grabbing the goblin by the collar, hefting the dazed creature to his feet. "Take us to the Lestrange vault. _Now_."

"Of course," the goblin replied, inclining his head slightly. No trace of the confusion common to a botched _Imperius_, just friendly obedience, and Hermione wondered if Draco practiced before he _imperioed_ Madame Rosemerta, and if so, how. She kept her hand clamped over the wound in her arm as she, Draco, Harry, Ron, Neville and Mr Weasley hurried towards the archway that led to the tracks with Kingsley, the others remaining behind, to hold the doors. Her blood spattered weakly on the floor every few steps, and she swore and fumbled out her vial of dittany as they hurried along, dripping it on her arm.

She fell behind the others, and Draco noticed – like she had hoped he wouldn't – and snarled, snatching her unwounded arm, all cold hard lines and no pity left in him, even for her. He was in that place he went, that place that made Hermione not recognise him in the slightest, that made her stomach flip with half-_frightened_ want instead of the usual welcome hot swirls. He frightened her and made her feel _safe_ at the same time, when he was like this. He stared at her hurt arm, and the muscles in his jaw twitched and bunched.

"You're hurt," it was a sharp statement of fact snapped out, and Hermione nodded, tried to pull her arm away. "I'm fine." But his fingers were like iron and the butt of his wand jabbed painfully into her flesh. She held up her wounded arm for him to see, the gash already slowly closing over as the dittany went to work. "See?"

"Hurry up, you two!" Kingsley growled, and Hermione jumped, caught Draco's eyes with hers, worried by the fear underneath the cold. "You have to believe it," she told him, half-snarkily, and then flashed him a smile, running toward Kingsley and the others, her braid thumping against her back and the sound of Draco's footsteps behind her.

**# # # # # #**

Belonging and Birthdays II

_She brought him breakfast in bed, after the sex. He said she didn't have to, but she insisted, a bundle of nervous energy, planting a kiss on him that missed his cheek and hit his ear, half deafening him, before skittering out of the room. When she brought up his breakfast – an inordinate amount of time later, and sporting burnt fingers – Draco sat up in bed, naked under the sheet, and dove into the slightly underdone poached eggs, black-edged toast, limp bacon, and cereal she'd brought him. Hermione picked at his food in a lacklustre fashion for a while, despite his playful warning jabs at her thieving fingers with the tines of his fork. She didn't eat much though, and said she wasn't really hungry; in the end she just sat on the bed cross-legged in her pyjama top and shorts, and watched __**him**__ eat, her chin cupped in her hands._

"_It makes me nervous, when you watch me like that. I keep thinking you're plotting to murder me," he said with lazy amusement, and popped a spoonful of muesli in his mouth, and Hermione blushed and immediately looked down at her hands. "Sorry."_

"_That's not a denial," he commented, and she glared up at him, dipped her finger in the yolk of one of the eggs, and deliberately flicked the drips in his face. Warm, runny yolk spattered sparsely over his nose and cheeks and he only just managed to shut his eyes in time to avoid getting a drop of yolk in it. He spluttered, and while his eyes were screwed shut she took the opportunity to flick_ _**more**__ yolk at him. He spluttered again and flinched, wiped his eyes and narrowed them at her, grabbing her wrist and stopping her from flicking any more bloody yolk._

"_You __**bitch**__," he said, half-laughing, half-furious, and she smirked at him, an expression that wavered and melted into desire when he yanked her hand to his face and drew her egg-covered finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, sucking hard. "Mmph," she said faintly and he grinned, triumphant, and released her finger, trying to smudge away the spatters of yolk that decorated his face._

"_Is it gone?" he asked her, and she covered her face and snorted gracelessly, peeking between her splayed fingers at him and snorting back more laughter as she struggled out a choked, "Yes," that a Hufflepuff wouldn't have believed._

"_Merlin's sake, you are the __**worst**__ liar I have ever met, Hermione," he said, shaking his head with mock-disappointment._

"_I am not!" she said automatically, frowning fiercely at him, managing to be straight-faced for a moment. And then she choked back a string of giggles again. "I'm sorry, you just look so funny," she said, and then, regaining some of her composure, "Here, let me help you." And then Hermione was leaning forward on her hands and knees over the tea tray on Draco's lap, and licking a cold, wet trail along his cheek. Draco shivered at the sensation and jolted away from her instinctively, and the damn muesli spilled everywhere, sloshing over the tea tray and soaking into the sheet below, and the Malfoy family jewels below __**that**__. "Oh Merlin's____fucking__** balls**__ that's cold."_

**# # # # # #**

A Memory Out of Time II

**He can still see it in his mind, as clear as if he were viewing it in a pensieve. It is easier in the dark. The day that she brought him down the tray of Mrs Weasley's delicious home cooked lunch, it is clear in his mind. He had been huddled in a corner, feeling loathsome and defeated, and she had come and spoken his name with worry in her voice, and he had felt the poisonous sting of gratitude – for her having kept her word, and for the kindness in her voice when she spoke his name. She had tried to be kind to him, and the awkwardness had been palpable in the air, but he had been too sunk in self-loathing to care.**

**Draco thought that **_**that**_** had been the first time he'd looked at her and **_**seen**_** her, when she had said, ****"Oh… I'll be perfectly comfortable on your bed, Malfoy," and he had realised that Granger was **_**female**_**, and actually rather attractive. He wonders now how he could have ever not noticed how pretty she was, how quietly, glowingly beautiful. But that was then, and this is now, and hindsight is always twenty/twenty, and he can't blame himself for not seeing it. He thinks it would have been easier if he'd never seen it. **

**But Draco finds Hermione's fingers in the dark and curls his around them, and remembers the way the slim digits had twined in her lap as she had stared at him surreptitiously while he'd eaten that day – trying to be sneaky, but failing miserably. He had thought at the time, that she was just staring at his stump, and he had been angry, uncomfortable, all mixed up with that horrible, unwelcome gratitude. And he'd hated her, when she had asked him what happened, to maim him. He had lashed out, and so had she, and the poison of old hate and fresh anger had hung thick in the damp cellar air. But she had been **_**distressed**_** as well as angry, and in the end, **_**he hadn't wanted her to go**_**.**

**There had been something more than hate between them – there had been her clumsy attempts at kindness, and his damned gratitude. She had brought Draco food and succour, and he had clung to her for that, and despised himself for it. He still wonders why she reached out to him, then, and the answer is always, **_**because she is Hermione Granger**_**. He wonders why she came back down to the cellar, after leaving in a cloud of anger and hurt, his insults of **_**mudblood**_**, and then his pathetic pleas in her ears. Right now, there is a large part of him that wishes she **_**hadn't**_**. She changed everything when she gave him the second chance no one else would, and he is not selfish enough to think that was a good thing. Not anymore.**

**# # # # # #**

Belonging and Birthdays III

_She handed him a rectangular package, all wrapped in brown paper and tied up with twine, and Draco paused in trying to button his shirt and raised an eyebrow at her. "What's this?"_

"_Your birthday present, of course," she said and gave him a little, nervous smile, as if she was afraid he wouldn't like the gift. He took it – obviously a book – and flashed her faint but genuine smile, feeling slightly stunned. Bemused. He hadn't had a birthday this nice in years. He hadn't had anyone love him with this sort of quiet, certain, loyalty in years – not even his mother. __**Her**__ love was intense and clinging, but in the end had proved a fair-weather friend. Hermione's love was something entirely different to anything Draco had ever experienced, and sometimes – like now – he still didn't know what the fuck to do with it._

"_I – ah – thank you," he said quietly, and sat down on the edge of the bed to open the present, his shirt half-buttoned and his hair still spiky and damp from the shower they'd had after she'd tipped his muesli all over him. She watched him anxiously as he examined the package. Shook it, as if he expected it to rattle, held it to his ear. Making a performance out of it, watching her watch him all anxious and worried, growing more and more frustrated with him. _

"_Just __**open**__ it!" she finally burst out with, hands all knotted up in front of her, and hair straggling wet over her shoulders, and Draco laughed at her softly, feeling the lightest he has felt in months. Happy. "I'm just trying to figure out what it is," he protested, trying to look very serious, and she shot him a scathing look. "__**You**__," she said disgustedly, and then poked him in the shin with her bare toes. "Open it!"_

"_All right, all right," he said placatingly and undid the twine, neatly unfolded the paper, revealing a slim volume that read: __**The Scrabble Player's Handbook**__. Draco stared at it, lip curling in disgust. "The Scrabble Player's Handbook," he read aloud slowly, disbelievingly, and an odd noise strangled out of Hermione's throat, and he looked up to see her hand clamped over her mouth as she laughed into it, bent over nearly double._

"_The look – the – the – the look on your face! Oh my __**god!**__"_

"_You got me a Scrabble rule book," he said blankly, and she kissed the jut of his cheekbone impulsively, still laughing. Since his proposal, Hermione had been infected with an odd mood, and Draco didn't quite know what to make of it, especially at moments like these, when she was cackling hysterically in front of him. Annoyance began to dawn on him, mixed up with fierce affection for the girl who was really too thin, and had hollows under her eyes that never went away, and scars on her gorgeous fucking skin that she'd had to cover with a glamour at Weasley's wedding. Who still had nightmares about being tortured by his aunt, who got so scared before missions that she threw up, but went out and fought anyway. Who'd gotten him a birthday present, and was laughing like the war didn't exist and they were just two normal teenagers, in a room, on an eighteenth birthday._

_Draco laid the book to one side, on the bed, and stood when Hermione's laughter began to fade a few moments later, and swallowed the last of it with his lips on hers. It was a brief kiss, but demanding, hard, hot, greedy, despite that. He pulled back after the searing kiss that left them both gasping and him somehow icy-hot all through his veins, and said, "Thank you." His mouth quirked into a lopsided smirk, and his voice was dry as hell. "This is __**exactly**__ what I wanted." And it was, in the strangest sort of way, and Hermione shrugged awkwardly, ducked her face away. "I didn't know what to get you." She looked up at him sidelong, shrugging again. "You're __**very**__ hard to buy for, you realise."_

"_I'm sure I am," he said and his hand stroked up the curve of her neck, cupping her jaw, thumb splaying out to rub lightly over her chin, eyes on hers and she slid them away, shuffling on her feet. "I know it's just a silly gift. But…"_

"_Thank you, Hermione," he interrupted her, and meant the words with every part of him, and she smiled and the tense set of her shoulders relaxed, and she went up on tiptoes and kissed the corner of his mouth. "Happy Birthday."_

**# # # # # #**

Of War III

They screamed along the tracks in the cart at a breakneck pace, and Hermione bit her lip and held onto the edge of the seat so hard her fingers cramped, barely breathing, hating the speed. It was worse than flying, because she didn't even have the slightest control – the _Imperiused_ goblin was operating the cart, and Hermione hoped to god that Draco had really done a good job of _Imperiusing_ the goblin. He was squashed up against her, lean and thin and all sharp angles, his hand locked around her wrist, a comfort, and Ron was on her other side. She was crushed between the two of them so much so that she could barely breathe – six of them hanging onto the cart that was only meant to hold four, and her heart was in her throat. At least they didn't have to wear their gasmasks anymore.

"Isn't this _fun?_" Ron yelled and flashed her a wide, toothy grin, and Hermione pushed down the urge to throw up as her stomach roiled, and shook her head vigorously. "No! You're _mad_, Ronald!"

"Oh, come on, 'Mione, this is –" The cart jerked to a halt and Hermione nearly got whiplash as they braked viciously. A red flashing light popped up at the front of the cart, and a funny wailing sound pierced the air. "The Thief's Downfall," Kingsley said, and Ron said, "_Oh fu_–" And then the seats _flipped_ _down_ and they plummeted downwards. Hermione screamed until she thought her head was going to split open, legs kicking uselessly beneath her, and arms flailing as she dropped like a stone towards the rapidly approaching ground. And then she realised she had her wand in her hand, and with seconds to spare, flashed it around, and her and the others' descents suddenly slowed. Someone else must have cast the same charm too, because a second later their descent slowed again, to a slow drift, and then they were floating gently down to the ground.

Hermione's feet touched earth and she fell to her hands and knees, feeling the rough hewn stone beneath her fingers, never, _never_ so glad to be on solid ground as right now.

"Christ – _that_ was exciting," Harry said breathlessly, and his hand clasped around Hermione's wrist, helping her up to her feet with a grunt of effort. She swayed there, blinking and trying not to decorate her shoes. "You're insane, Harry. We nearly…"

"Went splat?" Draco asked from behind her and made her jump with fright. She clutched her hand to her chest and waited for her heart to calm, and her breathing to slow. "_Yes_," she said vehemently, glaring around at everyone else, who all seemed to have enjoyed the terrifying ride – even Neville, white-faced and panting with fear, was grinning away like an idiot too. Even Mr Weasley and Kingsley looked like they'd gotten a thrill out of the near fatal ride. Even the _goblin_, was sitting on the ground smiling pleasantly up at everyone, as if he hadn't just nearly fallen to his death, completely unmoved by the experience. "You're _all_ bloody mad," Hermione huffed, still feeling like she was falling, heart lodged intractably in her throat.

Kingsley smiled ever so faintly, and then straightened and looked around at them all. "We should keep moving. If the Thief's Downfall has been activated, then the Death Eaters won't be far behind. Goblin – the Lestrange vault, if you will." The goblin struggled to his feet and nodded, headed off at an uneven trot along the rough stone walkway, past the doors of other, lesser, vaults, and Hermione followed with the others.

Draco was close at her side, a constant presence, and although she had to watch where she placed her feet on the rough ground and couldn't spare a glance at him, just knowing he was there was enough. She stumbled along with everyone, and despite the goblin's short stature, he could move at quite a brisk pace, and in the dark with only their _Lumos_ charms to light the path, she nearly fell several times, either Draco or Ron grabbing her arm and yanking her upright each time. Harry was ahead of them, keeping pace beside the goblin, and his head jerked around like he was scenting the air, there was a vibrating anticipation to him.

"I can _feel_ it," he said loud enough for them all to hear as they lagged behind him and the goblin, a dreamy urgency to his tone. "I can _feel_ that it's close. Feel _him…_"

A shiver ran down Hermione's spine and she, Ron, and Neville exchanged worried looks. Harry picked up the pace, moving faster, pulling ahead of the goblin, running through an archway ahead of them, and Kingsley called out to him, ordering him to come back. And then there was a rush of heat and thunder, and Harry came tearing back out through the archway like the devil himself was on his heels, looking distinctly singed. He barrelled full-tilt into Hermione and they nearly both fell down in a tangle together, but Hermione clutched at him and held them both upright.

"Harry! Harry, are you all _right?_"

He stared at her wildly with those big green eyes, and panted, "_D-d-dragon!_"

Their goblin escort started to chuckle at that, a whistling, rusty, wheezing sound, and Hermione spun on him and glared daggers. He just kept laughing, though, and then reached out and showed Hermione something dangling from his gnarled hands. A leather bag, and Hermione furrowed her brow, puzzled, and he shook it and a ringing, clanking noise rang out, like a blacksmith at work in his shop – the ring of metal on metal, pure and loud. "Clankers," the goblin said by way of explanation. "The dragons are trained to expect pain when they hear the sound. It…tames them."

"That's horrible!" Hermione cried automatically, and in the dark she saw the silver flash of Draco's eyes as he looked over at her, his lips curling in faint amusement by the bluish light of his _Lumos_, and she felt silly for worrying about the ethical treatment of dragons when they had far bigger problems to focus on. But… "It is!" she insisted stubbornly, and the goblin ignored her, and Draco just kept smiling that faint, unnerving smile, and then Kingsley snapped for the goblin to get going; they had a limited time frame, and then they were moving toward the arch. She could hear the thrashing and thudding of the dragon – irritated by Harry into a rage, and gouts of flame licked out the archway. The goblin went forward first, and lifted the clankers, shaking them, making ringing, clear noises, and Hermione heard a growling whine, and the scrabble of huge claws.

They passed through the arch, she close by Draco's side, and she winced at the sight of the dragon. Huge and cowed, half-blind and scales rubbed and patchy, cringing against the far wall in an attempt to get away from the pain that it expected. "That's _cruel,_" she muttered and Draco looked down at her, his pale hair stark white in the bluish lights of the _Lumos_ charms and falling over his eyes. "Yes, it is," he said neutrally, no judgement whatsoever in his voice, and they kept moving, hurrying through out of the dragon's reach, and the goblin let the clankers fall silent. They stopped before a vault door, and the goblin went to open it, but Hermione's attention was distracted by a slippery dance of silver toward them.

It was a patronus – a rat with thin silver whiskers and a long lashing tail, and it spoke with Truffle's voice: _The Death Eaters are here. We'll hold the doors as long as we can, but __**hurry.**_

They all looked at each other, full of fear and adrenaline pumping – they'd run out of time – and then the vault doors clicked and whirred, and opened with an oiled whisper, revealing a rolling hill of treasures, all glittering and bright.

**# # # # # #**

A Memory Out of Time III

**He has always been ruthless and cold and cruel, even when he **_**hasn't**_** been, if that makes any sense. Hermione thinks he can't help it – it's part of him, in his nature, the way he was raised, and every time that he is kind, or thoughtful, or compassionate, he is defying his nature. It is not natural for him to care for others who are not of his blood. But there is a seed inside Draco that his upbringing could not crush out of him – the thing that stopped him from killing Dumbledore, that night on top of the astronomy tower. The seed of humanity that stayed his hand, and made him waver in his resolve to murder the Hogwarts Headmaster. **

**Draco may be ruthless and cold and cruel, but he **_**does**_** have a conscience even if he hasn't always listened to it, and she knows it pains him, because she is there when he has the nightmares.**

**He kills and he maims, and he does what he has to, but even if know one else can see it, Hermione can see the weight of it all on his shoulders, locked away and shuttered behind his eyes. It is a strange thing, to love Draco Malfoy. A frightening thing, even if she has long since embraced it. No matter what it has brought her, no matter how much it has hurt, it is **_**right**_** and they are **_**right**_** and she will never deny that. She wonders sometimes, at how much she has changed, that she can accept the ruthlessness, which in anyone else would repulse her. she thinks that he has corrupted her, and she doesn't **_**care**_**.**

**This is war, and there is **_**need**_** for ruthlessness and callousness, and as much as Draco's attitude on missions has scared her in the past, it makes her feel safe too, and although she doesn't like that about herself, and it makes her feel uneasy, as if she somehow isn't the same Hermione Granger, she also accepts it. Because things change, and Hermione, and Ron, and Harry – and Draco, especially Draco – they have **_**all**_** changed. None of them have been left untouched by the greedy, sooty fingers of war, clawing over them and leaving stains on their skin and their souls.**

**In the cold and the dark, Hermione remembers the look in his eyes when he had shoved her against the wall in the Death Eater residence on that mission, arguing. She hadn't known if he was going to hit her or kiss her, and then the spell had struck right by her head and nearly killed her, and his face had turned to stunned horror. She remembers the twisted pleasure on Draco's face, the boyish, excited glee at the sound of that same Death Eater's ribs crackling like kindling under his vicious kicks. Because the Death Eater had tried to hurt Hermione and Hermione was Draco's. She remembers hearing after the fact, that he had choked the Death Eater who had trapped her under the bookcase with a **_**repulso**_**. Choked him to death with one hand, his leg a twisted char of meat, and madness in his eyes when they'd dragged him off the Death Eater, unlocked his hand from around the dead man's throat.**

**It makes her uneasy, that a man she loves can do that sort of thing and she can still love him. When they are away from the fever-pitch of war he is just **_**Draco**_** and he no longer radiates that controlled danger, but when they are in battle he is a weapon, he is heartless and cold and just like a Death Eater, except fighting on their side. It makes her worry about what the war has done to her, for that to bother her so little, but despite her worries about the state of her mind Hermione is glad she is with Draco. She would rather have Draco with his disturbing ability for pitilessness by her side now, than a bleeding heart who hesitated to hurt or kill the enemy if they had the chance. Because this is war, and it is a matter of life and death and more than just that, and Hermione thinks that she is finally starting to understand that, deep in her bones.**

**# # # # # #**

Of War IV

There was nothing they could do but stand outside the vault and watch Harry helplessly as Kingsley tried to carefully levitate him towards the cup. There was a _Flagrante Curse_ on the Lestrange's vault that caused objects within to turn white-hot and multiply with heated, worthless copies when touched, which they had only belatedly discovered. Harry's leathers were scorched with burn marks, and he hovered unsteadily in the air under Kingsley's spell, reaching out with his wand, trying to hook the cup. The floor of the vault was piled up with white-hot copies of the things he had already touched, and Kingsley was taut with the strain of keeping the Boy-Who-Lived steadily aloft.

Draco was jittering by Hermione's side with impatience, darting glances over his shoulder constantly, the tension radiating off him, Neville was muttering anxiously under his breath, and Ron had his fists clenched by his sides, saying a quiet, urgent litany of, "Come on, Harry, come on Harry, come on, Harry." They were running out of time, and Hermione herself was bouncing from foot to foot, afraid and impatient and bubbling up with adrenaline and terror. She was trying not to think about the fact that they had no clue how to get back up to the lobby of Gringotts, trying not to think about the Death Eaters trying to break through the doors upstairs, but she couldn't help it.

"Come on, Harry," she whispered, joining Ron in his looping, desperate words, watching Harry like a hawk, wincing as Kingsley bumped him into a stack of galleons, and they exploded into a shower of white-hot coins that burnt his face, neck and hands, and burnt round blackened pieces into his leathers. "You can do it…" she added, nails digging into her palms, as if she could make him get the cup through sheer force of will. And then his wand tip slid over the cup, hooking it up, and she gasped and her shoulders sank with immense relief. "Thank fucking Merlin," Draco muttered tightly, and she reached out and curled her fingers around his elbow, drawing his attention, smiling at him waveringly.

"We've got it," she said half-disbelieving, almost _weak _with the relief of at least _one_ part of the mission having been accomplished successfully, and Draco eyed her, all grey and silvers and whites in the light. He seemed to contemplate her gravely for a brief moment, and then he bent his head to hers and kissed her, and Hermione made a soft mm-ing sound and happy-relieved-pleased want swirled through her stomach. Taking the brief moment they had before they had to start trying to figure a way out, to savour the taste of his lips and tongue against hers.

"_So_ not the time," Ron said with disgusted amusement, and Hermione remembered they were surrounded by people and blushed and pulled back, staring at the ground and fiddling with her wand. "You just wish your wife was here, Weasley," Draco snarked, and Ron huffed a sound of derision. "No, I really _don't_," he said, and meant it, and the brief lightness and hope faded from the air at his grim words. Harry dropped to the ground heavily by the vault door, and grinned at them all, holding the cup aloft by the handle hooked over his wand. "Got it!" he said triumphantly, and they all looked at the thing, and shuddered in near unison.

"Fiendfyre, then, Kingsley?" Mr Weasley asked, and Kingsley nodded sharply, saying, "It would be best to destroy it now, in case we don't…"

"I agree," Mr Weasley replied steadily, although there was worry filling him up to bursting – he wasn't very good at hiding his feelings, and his gaze rested on his son.

"Best figure out a way out of here, first, before you go setting the damned place on fire," Draco commented with careful casualness, looking around the enormous cavern without much hope in his eyes, and they all sank into sudden, grasping thought. Ron paced and Harry gnawed at his lip, and they were all painfully aware that up above them somewhere, the remainder of the Order team were trying to hold off the Death Eaters, and they had to get up there _soon_.

Hermione racked her brain, tried to claw up some sort of plan, some kind of solution. But they had no brooms, and the cart had whizzed back up the tracks and the tracks far too high up anyway, for them _all_ to get to. They were stuck, she realised bleakly. It was Russia all over again. Her hand found Draco's and after a start and a pause, his fingers clamped bone-achingly tight around hers. They didn't look at each other though.

And then Hermione's unfocused eyes slid over the blank-faced goblin jiggling the bag of clankers absently in his hand, and it came to her in a flash of what she _liked_ to think was pure genius. "The dragon," she said cryptically, grinning around at the utterly confused faces of her friends. "The _dragon!_" she repeated, and rushed forward and snatched the bag of clankers of the goblin. "Come on!"

They could do this, she thought as she hurried towards the spacious room the dragon huddled in, and tried to breathlessly convince the others her plan was a good one. They could do this. They had to believe it.

**# # # # # #**

Belonging and Birthdays IV

_Everyone was being so fucking __**nice**__, and he didn't understand it, didn't even really like it. The group of Order members in the lounge said a rousing "Happy Birthday!" when Hermione finally dragged him down the stairs into the room, and Draco just stood there in speechless, blank surprise, feeling like a fucking idiot. When had he started to become part of this ragged group of do-gooders? When had they started to accept him? He just nodded his head at them all in acknowledgement, and then slouched to the couch with a scowl firmly back on his face – his standard defensive expression when he was confused by something like this._

"_What do you want to watch, Malfoy?" Thomas asked._

"_What?"_

"_We were about to watch a movie. It's your birthday, you choose," Thomas said and Draco fought the sudden urge to stalk back upstairs. Hermione sat next to him on the couch, legs all folded up under her, her hand laying softly on his thigh. He shrugged. "Dunno."_

"_Oh, hurry the fuck up and pick something, Malfoy," Weasley said from his snugged up position on an armchair with his new wife, and Draco growled under his breath, staring at the stack of video tapes by the telly. "Ahh…Starship Troopers…" he said arbitrarily, the first title he saw that didn't look like it would induce floods of tears in the girls – they'd watched Titanic the other day. Never again. Merlin that was a __**shite **__movie – sickening. At least Hermione had only sniffled a bit at points, and not spouted tears like a fountain, as Chang and Brown – who had been visiting – had done._

_Thomas went and put in the video tape, and it whirred into life on the telly screen – so odd, Muggle technology. So __**interesting**__. The movie started playing, and Hermione snuggled up to Draco's side, all affectionate like she had been since the proposal. Unless Draco was trying to irritate Weasley and Potter, he wasn't big on displays of affection in public, but he breathed in deeply, let it out very slowly, and put his arm around Hermione's shoulders and tried to make himself relax and watch the movie. It wasn't easy to concentrate, while his mind kept flipping back to the Order members' uneasy-making friendliness, wondering when exactly the dynamic had changed, and how had he let the odd, bickering camaraderie creep up on him so slowly, without even noticing it happen?_

_The movie, at least, actually wasn't half bad, and he rather liked the way Hermione's fingers trailed firm and teasing over his thighs the whole time, although the raging erection her touch gave him was a little awkward._

**# # # # # #**

A Memory Out of Time IV

**The night before the Gringotts mission, Draco had fallen asleep before her, for once, and Hermione had lain quietly beside him, face to face, and just watched him sleep. The moment is imprinted in her mind, and she remembers every moon-soaked detail like it is happening now. She had laid there, his breath warm and minty on her face, and committed every last millimetre of his face to her memory. His high forehead all fallen over with sheaves of platinum hair, his eyes shut and lashes throwing curling shadows on his cheeks, his straight, aristocratic nose, and the sharp strength to his chin and jaw, the thin lines of him carved with war and worry. **

**She had watched him and thought about how peaceful he looked when he was sleeping without the nightmares prowling the halls of his mind. How young he looked, how oddly innocent. He was eighteen now and only barely a man by Muggle standards, and if, when he was awake, he looked immeasurably older, now, sleeping, the weight of his burdens had lifted off his shoulders and he was someone else entirely. He still had the bruised shadows around his eyes, and he was still too thin, and his maimed arm was drawn up so the stump rested beneath his chin – a stark reminder that they could never forget the war entirely – but he was gentle and serene looking in a way he rarely was, when awake.**

**Hermione thinks of how she had traced her fingers along his temple, gently pushing his hair back off his face, and he had twitched under her touch, mumbled something. How he had opened sleepy grey eyes and tipped that generous mouth at her, and said very drowsily, "Go back to sleep, Hermione. Stop staring at me, it's strange." And then he had curled his maimed arm around her and pulled her in close to him, his chin resting on the top of her head and her breath puffing hot against his chest, and he had fallen back into the deep, slow breaths of sleep. And she had lain there and tried to sleep, her fingers splayed on the skin of his back, and all she had been able to think about was whether or not they would get their future.**

**She can't stop thinking about that **_**now**_**, although she knows it doesn't help to dwell. She thinks about fantasies of perfection and wills them to come true. Winning the war, getting married, he not being ostracised by Wizarding society, and them both getting good jobs; enjoyable careers to pour their energy into. And having children, one day, and watching her parents play with them, and sending them off to Hogwarts on the train and waving goodbye, and welcoming them back on holidays. She plots out their whole future – a shining, wonderful vision – and she whispers it to them both in a low voice, and she knows that he is smiling despite himself.**

**Her throat is parched and her voice is little more than a cracked whisper, and she still plans their lives aloud, seeing it all in her mind's eye. What they will name their children. What their children will look like. All the arguments they will have. The dinners they will have with Harry and Ginny, and Ron and Cho, and the bickering between the men, which they will still use to try to hide their friendship. She whispers of him meeting her parents, once they've found them, and of Narcissa's horror at having half-blood grandchildren. She tells him what their house will look like, because they **_**won't **_**live in the Manor, and she tells him with a laugh to her voice of how many times she will beat him at Scrabble.**

**He is smiling in the dark, she knows it, and he is crying, and she knows that too because she can feel the tremor of his fingers around hers, and when she reaches out she can feel that wetness of tears on his cheeks over top of the dried blood. And every time she stops in her halting, fairytale narrative of how their lives will unfold, to take a breath, or lick her cracked lips with a thick, swollen tongue, Draco whispers, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Hermione," through his tears, like his heart is torn asunder, like he **_**hates**_** himself. She wishes he would stop, because she doesn't have any regrets, and she wishes he understood that. **

**If she had to do everything over again, she would do it all the same.**

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **::grins:: So, what do you think, of both the format (the three different sections) and the content? I must know! Please leave a review with your thoughts, to give me the motivation to get the final part of this chapter out quickly :D

So…am I evil? Hehe. Did this chapter give you _all the feels?_ I hope so :D I was trying to, well, give it an atmosphere/mood/tone appropriate to being the (first part) of the final chapter. Even if there is going to be a sequel set directly after this story, I still want the final chapters to do justice to the story, and have a climactic sort of feeling, and a look back at Hermione and Draco's journey so far. A sense of closure, I guess? Of coming full circle? I dunno, I think I'm just rambling now, lol.

At any rate, I hope it's obvious from this chapter that some exciting things are going to be happening _next_ chapter, and in _The Just World Fallacy_. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and will enjoy the next too, and where I take Hermione and Draco's story after _The Risk-Reward Ratio_ finishes.

Please review!


	46. Finale, Part Two: Together

**Author's Note: **Ohmigod I can't believe this is the last chapter! I mean, hey, yeah – there's the sequel I'll be starting on immediately, but _still_ – _The Risk-Reward Ratio_ is **over**, and that feels _so_ weird. **Thank you **so, so much to everyone who has read, favourited, followed, and, most especially reviewed this story. Knowing people have enjoyed something I've written has been seriously so awesome. It's what's kept me writing even when my muse has disappeared on me, because I didn't want to leave you with an unfinished tale, so thanks for the motivation and support :)

**Trigger Warnings **for **graphic violence**.

A reminder on the segments – _"__Belonging and Birthdays__"_ is set the day before the Gringotts mission, which takes place in "Of War", and **"****A Memory Out of Time****" **is set at an unspecified point in the future, but mostly revolves around remembering past events.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the finale of _The Risk-Reward Ratio!_

**# # # # # #**

**Finale, Part Two: Together**

_When the sun runs out_

_And there's no one left to save you_

_Will you go to our favourite place_

_And try to say goodbye?_

_At the end of, at the end of the world_

_Will you find me, will you find me?_

_At the end of, at the end of the world_

_Will you find me so that we can go_

_Together, together, together_

_[End of the World, Ingrid Michaelson]_

**# # # # # #**

Of War V

The dragon clawed its way up, flapping and making roaring, whining calls for freedom, and they all clung to the spikes along its spine with desperate white-knuckled fingers. They tried to aid its escape by casting multiple _reductos _at the rocky ceiling above them, and huge chunks of rock and showers of dust rained down upon them, making their situation even more dangerous than it already was. Below them the Fiendfyre raged, consuming the horcrux, and Kingsley – who had cast the curse – was trying to extinguish it. But the magical cursed fire was notoriously difficult to control, even for a wizard with years of skill and experience, and he was struggling. Hermione tried to breath, and refused to let herself look down, knowing that would bring on a bout of vertigo which could easily prove deadly.

Draco was next to her, wand clenched in his teeth, holding onto the dragon with his one hand and grinning at her manically, and she wanted to murder him for looking so un-terrified. He only had the one hand to hold on with, unlike everyone else, and Hermione was petrified that with all the falling rocks and panicked, furious thrashing and clawing of the dragon, that he would fall. And that she wouldn't be able to save him. But all she could do was hold on, one-handed half the time herself as she aimed _reductos_ at the rock ceiling above them. And then finally, the dragon burst through with a flex of its neck, giant head thrusting up past the rock, into whatever was up there. Enormous slabs of rock broke free and Hermione flung up a _protego_ that covered her, Draco and Kingsley, trusting the others to shield themselves as well. Chunks of stone and marble as big as her head bounced of her shield and tumbled down to land in the remnants of the Fiendfyre, which Kingsley was succeeding in extinguishing.

And then the dragon scrambled out of the hole that they, and it, had created, great claws skittering shockingly loud over the marble of the bank's lobby. They had come straight up through the floor, Hermione realised with a shock and half a laugh, panting and clinging on as the dragon dragged its hindquarters out of the hole. It tipped its head up, _tasting_ freedom, and then reared itself upwards, head smashing up through the ceiling, glass and plaster hailing around them and littering the floor of the bank. Down on the floor, she could see that the Death Eaters had broken through Professor McGonagall's locking charms on Gringotts' doors, and there was a pitched battle going on. The other Order members and the enemy alike paused and stared in shock as the dragon and its six passengers erupted from the floor and took out half the roof, but resumed sparse seconds later.

"Jump!" Kingsley roared over the blasting sound of the dragon gouting fire from its massive jaws, as the creature started to scramble up onto the outside of the roof, and Hermione shot Draco a white-faced look, grabbed his elbow in hers, and _jumped_. She didn't have the time or the clear head to cast a feather-falling charm, and she hit the ground feet first and hard, bolts of pain whiting up her legs, and she fell forward clumsily onto her hands and knees, screaming. When she'd shoved the shock of the pain back down, she looked frantically to her right – she'd lost hold of Draco when she'd hit the ground. She saw him lying on his back on the marble a few meters away from her, wand still between his teeth. Her heart wrenched and panic seized her as he lay utterly motionless for a long, long moment, and then she saw his chest rise and fall at last, and she shuddered with the relief of it. He was alive, at least – she only hoped and prayed that he hadn't broken his back or neck and paralysed himself, falling like that.

She scrambled up and fell again as pain ripped through her right ankle and up her leg, and realised with a sick shock that it was probably broken from the impact. She sheathed her wand and breathed through her clenched teeth, trying to filter out some of the dust in the air, which was already filling her lungs and making her choke on it. The Order members that had been left to hold the doors were falling back towards the group who had just tumbled from the back of the dragon, and the Death Eaters outnumbered them three to one at _least_ and were advancing steadily. Hermione's head whipped around and scanned the room as she crawled to Draco, still lying on his back, motionless but for the rise and fall of his chest. Everyone else was up, although Neville's arm was bent around _horribly_ and hanging limp, and Ron was bleeding all down the side of his face from a deep gash to his temple, and Hermione felt some measure of relief that the others were all right.

"Draco?" She gasped his name, coughing on the dust raised by the dragon's destruction of the bank, reaching his side and staring down at him, and he blinked dazed grey eyes up at her.

"H'hi'ne?" he asked and then growled and snorted a rattling laugh and ripped the wand from between his teeth and tried again. "Hermione? Are you all right?"

"Fine, fine," she said hurriedly, eyes running over him, because she was so relieved he was conscious and her ankle didn't hurt when she didn't put weight on it, so in her book she _was_ fine. She couldn't breathe properly, and her head was a sea of numb panic, but she was totally, absolutely fine. She choked down a hysterical giggle. "Can you get up?" she asked rapidly, tongue stumbling over the words, and Draco tested his limbs cautiously but quickly, flexing his arms, and neck, and legs, and then nodded.

"I think so. But – oh fucking _Merlin_ it's going to fucking _hurt_," he said, and then dragged in a breath, ground his teeth together, and rolled weakly over, shoved himself to his feet, and Hermione cringed at the sight of the needle-like shards of glass that had jabbed into his back. "God, Draco, your _back_," she said, and held up a hand so that he could pull her to her feet, and his eyes went very round and wide with shock, his hand jerking back before she could grab it.

"What?"

"Your _hands_," he said, and it was only then that Hermione realised they were bleeding, sliced ragged by the glass she'd crawled over to get to Draco. And it was only then that the pain hit her, a fierce, horrid burning that made her eyes well up with tears.

"Shit," she said, and reached up to Draco again and he grabbed her wrist gingerly and hauled her to her feet. "Shit, shit, _shit_. That _hurts_. Oh my _god._" She stared at her hands in dismayed confusion, and coughed again, hacking on dust and grit and bending over double, swaying on her feet.

"We have to go!" the Auror, Johns, yelled, reaching them, backing up and placing his feet carefully, so he didn't trip on the rubble, and Hermione jerked her head up. She looked around and saw swarms of Death Eaters advancing, and the small Order team, fighting for their lives, and with her hands like this, she couldn't even defend herself, let alone pull her own weight. She weighed up the time it would take, versus how much she needed her hands usable, and made a snap decision as people folded in around her and Draco, sheltering them, shielding them from the Death Eaters. She up stared into Draco's white face, and straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. "Pull them out."

"What?" He looked at her with ripples of uncharacteristic blanching fear falling across his face, and she repeated herself, adding, "And hurry up. I can't hold my wand like this."

He bit his lip and backed up a step staring at her outstretched hands, blood pooling in the dips of her palms and dripping over onto the floor, bloodstained glass spiking out of her flesh like a hedgehog's prickles. "I – I can't. I. Hermione. _Fuck_." He stepped forward and reached out, and plucked a shard out of her flesh decisively and she winced at the stabbing hurt of it, and he winced at her pain.

"Hermione, what the _hell?_" Ron was asking her, suddenly very close to her, so close she could feel his body heat, having appeared like a blood-coated ghost out of the dust that billowed in the air, "What…?"

She shoved her other hand at him, showing him what had happened, and people were yelling and screaming spells and the dust was still settling and it was chaos, and Kingsley and Johns were shouting that they needed to fight their way out _now_. They couldn't stay, they couldn't hold their own, and they had to _retreat, now_.

"Pull it all out, Ron! I can't hold my wand!" Hermione yelled over the noise and Ron rubbed some of the blood off his face with a swipe of his palm and stared boggle-eyed at her hand. He only hesitated for a moment, and then took her wrist in one hand and started pulling the shards of glass out with the other. "Bloody fucking _hell_, Hermione," he swore as his fingers moving quickly and roughly, coated with his own blood, which then mingled with hers. "Trust _you_ to get yourself sliced up."

She couldn't spare the concentration to answer him with a verbal jab of her own, trying not to bite through her tongue as she winced and yelped and gritted her teeth through the yanking, tugging sensations in her flesh that sent fiery pain through her hands and up her arms.

"Done," Draco said with limp relief as he let go of her right hand, pulling out his dittany, jerking the cork out with his teeth and sprinkling it hurriedly on the wounds. As soon as he was finished, Hermione grabbed her wand and took notice of the battle raging around them again. She, Ron and Draco had been being protected by Harry, Neville, Johns and Truffle, who were fighting tooth and nail, Neville's left arm hanging twisted and limp by his side. Hermione blinked hard and tried to concentrate, as Draco turned away from her and flicked his wand, hitting a Death Eater that was distracted by duelling Neville with a _reducto_, which sent the wizard blasting apart in a shower of blood and bone and flesh, and Hermione was glad she hadn't eaten before they'd left on the mission.

"Done," Ron said and dripped dittany generously on her left hand, blinking through his own blood sheeting down his face, and Hermione lifted her hand and smeared it over his cut before he could pull back. "Oh fucking _gross_, Hermione," he said disgustedly and she laughed weakly at him. And then his cut started closing and he understood and grinned at her, clapping her on the back and making her wince. "Thanks, 'Mione."

"_Duck_," she snapped at him roughly almost before he'd finished speaking, and shot a stupefy over his head as he dropped, hitting a Death Eater square in the face and sending them toppling to the rubble-strewn floor. "Thanks," Ron gasped again, scrambling upright, eyes bright and shocked in his blood-smeared face, and then he was moving off, further down the ragged line that the Order was forming in their efforts to fight their way past the Death Eaters and toward the door. It made them too vulnerable though, too easy to pick off, outnumbered as they were, and shouts rang down the line to split up, to go for cover and _get to the door_.

She hadn't even taken a step when a spell exploded into the floor between her and Draco, throwing up chunks of marble, and she was flung back, choking and flailing, slamming into the ground hard with her shoulder. She crawled to her feet spitting blood and grit and trying to hold her cries behind her teeth, taking a wobbling step and putting weight on her broken ankle and stifling a scream at the pain. She couldn't see anything but the flashing lights of spells through a haze of dust, and vague shapes within the dust. She couldn't see Draco, couldn't see Ron, Harry, Neville…_anyone_. She was all alone and she couldn't _walk_.

A face loomed out of the dust, terrifyingly close, with the bone mask of the Death Eaters covering the human features, and Hermione reacted thought-fast, slashing her wand at the Death Eater's chest and throat and shouting, "_Diffindo! Diffindo! Diffindo!_" The Death Eater gurgled and fell, and Hermione was left gasping for breath, heart pounding in her chest, rattling against the cage of her ribs. She realised she couldn't just stay here and hope for someone to come and find her – she had to get out. Had to get to the doors. The dust from the explosion that had flung her back was starting to settle, and she could _just _see the big doors on the other side of the huge room, and shapes there, moving, milling about. The Order. And between them and her, the Death Eaters.

Hermione's stomach lurched and sank, and her breath hitched in panicky exhaustion. But she _had_ to make it, so she swallowed hard and shoved her fist into her mouth biting down hard and howling against it as she put her weight on her broken ankle. Stabs of pain ripped through her and she nearly fell, but forced herself to take another lurching step, and then another, biting down on her fist so hard she was breaking the skin, but _that_ pain helped distract her from the agony in her ankle. She lurched and stumbled, and her shoulder was a mass of pain, and her hands hurt where the dittany hadn't healed them completely, and her ankle was a sea of broken, wretched agony that drilled up her leg. She _had_ to make it to the others – they couldn't risk themselves to come back after her. They _couldn't_.

**# # # # # #**

_Belonging and Birthdays V_

_So far, the day had been going well, and Hermione was quite pleased with herself, and with how it was turning out. Draco seemed a bit bemused and unsettled – had since she'd gone to cook him breakfast – but he also seemed happy despite that bewilderment. Hermione cautiously pronounced his birthday to be a success, glad that everyone else was being so well-behaved about it too. A few days ago she'd given the boys all a few hard words and stern glares about __**being nice**__, and __**friendly**__ to Draco, and they had looked at Hermione in confusion, and told her that they already __**were**__ nice and friendly to Draco, and she had realised with a shock that they were, in their own ways. Even Dean and Seamus, who didn't spend much time around Draco – unlike Harry and Ron – were perfectly civil to him._

_So everyone sitting in the lounge – their peers, the older Order members not much interested in Muggle movies – had said raucous birthday greetings to Draco when she and he had come into the room. And he'd stood there stunned, like the world had been turned upside-down and shaken on him, and then nodded sharply and scowled at them all, and Hermione had laughed inwardly at how lost he'd been. They'd sat on the couch together and watched Starship Troopers with the others, and Draco's arm had been at first awkward, and then relaxed around her shoulders, and her fingers had crept boldly over his lap, to knead him through his trousers. Teasing promises of what was to come later on, tonight, and he didn't shove her hand away, so he must have liked it._

_The movie was nearly over now, not that Hermione had been paying much attention – it hadn't been her sort of film, although Draco seemed to have found it interesting enough. She was all curled up against his hard warmth, his arm a thin, wiry bar of heat behind her, around her, and her temple rested on his shoulder. It was lovely and peaceful, and Hermione treasured these moments that were so close to ordinary, that they made the war feel like a bad dream, only not __**quite**__ because she was still scarred and Draco's hand was still missing, and so was Cho's leg, and… "Oh god, that's horrible," she said, covering her eyes at the sight of the gore onscreen, and Draco snorted, chest moving beneath her head. Her hand was resting on his stomach now, so intimate, so comfortable, and she could feel the muscles tense and contract as he chuckled quietly at her._

"_We've all seen worse than that in real life, Hermione. This is just Muggle games of pretend, and you __**really**__ can't watch it?"_

_She looked up and saw him arch an eyebrow at her, his expression dry, the telly screen throwing light over him and tinting his grey eyes bluish._

"_I don't like it __**because **__I've seen worse," she mumbled quietly, feeling stupid and defensive. "It never used to bother me before – violence in Muggle movies and TV shows, I mean – but now…"_

_Draco nodded and sighed roughly, and his arm pressed her closer to him, and she sank her head back against the bony jut of his shoulder and collarbone, and her hand on his stomach was stroking and seeking, idly probing over the warmth of his lean muscle. _

"_Sorry," he said, with that unwilling edge to his voice that his apologies almost always had, like they were being dragged out of him, even over such simple little apologies as this one. Most people would throw out a 'sorry' without even thinking about it, but not Draco – no, he tore it out of himself almost against his will, and Hermione thought that it actually made his apologies mean more, in a strange kind of way. She knew he hated saying sorry, and yet he did anyway, for her. There was an awful lot he did for her – even today was for her, in a way. Hermione knew that he would perhaps have __**rather**__ had the day go by unnoticed and unremarked upon, but he was letting Hermione go through with everything she had planned without questioning or protesting or stalking back upstairs, because it made __**her **__happy._

_Hermione was pretty sure __**he**__ liked celebrating his birthday too, though, in the end, even if he would have let it pass by without comment – without her even __**knowing**__. That annoyed her slightly, she had to admit; that if Pansy hadn't told her Hermione would never have known. But before she could start getting annoyed over that, Draco's hand folded over hers on his stomach, tucking her fingers up inside his all cosily, and he kissed her lightly on the head before he turned his attention back to the telly. It was the little things like that, which made her feel content these days. She watched the rest of the movie with him in peaceful silence, and he didn't make anymore snarky comments when she looked away during the goriest bits._

**# # # # # #**

**A Memory Out of Time V**

**This all-consuming dark is conducive to letting his mind wander, and Draco finds himself leafing through memories like they are pages in the book of his life. Seeing them play out behind his eyelids like Muggle movies. Some of them are good, and some of them are bad. Tonight – this morning? this afternoon? this evening? – he keeps thinking about the bad ones. It is a punishment, of a sort, to lie here with Hermione's cold, limp hand in his, and think about all the times he has hurt her. He can think of **_**so many**_**. So many. Right from the very first **_**Mudblood**_**, most of his interactions with her have been cruel, designed to hurt her, designed to **_**punish**_** her for what she was. What she still is.**

**The times that he tripped her in the corridors, or knocked her books out of her hands, and then laughed at her as she bit her tongue and glared at him, and held back tears that he wished she would spill. The times that he spread vicious rumours about her for **_**fun**_**, out of **_**boredom**_**, and the times that he mocked her to her face, or within earshot. Always accompanied by sneers, and harsh laughter and contempt to further grind down her spirit. He had been an evil little git to her, and part of it had been just because she was a Mudblood, but most of it had been because she was a Mudblood who beat his marks in nearly every class. He had been nasty and horrible, and he'd hated her with a loathing that made his soul revolt from the memory when he recalled it now.**

"**I'm sorry," he says to her again, in a hoarse, broken voice that is unrecognisable as his, his tongue thick and dry in his mouth, and his lips cracked to bleeding. Saying that word,**_** sorry**_**, comes easily now, in a way that it never used to – although each time he speaks it, it still rips the guts out of him. Draco just welcomes that feeling now, instead of hating it and flinching from it. He deserves to hurt, he deserves to be **_**sorry**_**. She doesn't, Hermione doesn't, and yet here she is. With him. Together. And he can never be sorry enough for that. He says it again and squeezes her fingers, but she doesn't squeeze back. He doesn't know if she's just sleeping or – or – and senseless panic seizes him in a vice and he can't breathe himself until he finds her chest with his shaking hand and feels the shallow rise and fall of it as she breathes.**

**He lies back, beside her, and he passes the time deliberately remembering everything awful that he has ever done to her, from when they first met up to this moment right now, and he weighs it against everything good he has ever done for her, and he comes up woefully short on the side of good. And he is sorry – sorrier than he can ever express to her, and he says it over and over to her as she sleeps. He remembers hating a small, bossy, buck-toothed Mudblood, and he remembers how cruel he had been to her for so many years, and funnily enough, he wishes that he had been **_**crueller**_**, because then things might be different. Then she might have kept hating him when he'd come to the Order, instead of giving him another chance. And then they wouldn't be here, together.**

**# # # # # #**

Of War VI

Draco swam up to consciousness being hauled up unceremoniously by a firm hand on his maimed arm, and he flailed out with a fist and struck flesh, and shook the rough grip off, and turned and swung his wand at – _Johns_. He bit back the _Avada_ on his lips just in fucking time, and lowered his wand, looking about him, dazed and surrounded by clouds of dust, coated in the fine grit, his back on fire, his head aching fiercely, and his stump killing him with pain. He'd hit it on something very fucking hard and jagged when he'd been thrown to the ground, and it was bleeding now.

"Shit. I thought…" he said to Johns by way of half-apology, stopping to cough and hack wretchedly as he breathed in a lungful of grit. Something was wet and hot on the back of his head, and he touched his hand to it, and it came away soaked in fresh blood. Well, that would explain the blurring to his vision, he thought with a strange, dizzy calm, and tried to clear his head, blinking hard and concentrating.

"We have to go," Johns said, coughing into his arm as he held up his wand, ready, eyes darting about; alert for any threats in the dust that still mushroomed around them from the explosion that had sent Draco flying. Draco nodded, and then snapped his wand in a flourish, focusing his magic, and an approaching Death Eater's insides became his outsides, and he fell like a hunk of tattered meat. "Where are the others?" he asked a few seconds later, when he'd turned full circle and his eyes had picked up no one else, and Johns shrugged. "I don't fucking know, but we sure as hell aren't going to find them in this muck. We have to get to the doors and trust the others will make it there too."

And then Draco realised that it was _just_ him and Johns, and _no one else_.

"Shit. Fucking motherfucking _shit_," Draco spat, as his dulled brain finally realised the obvious. "_Where's Hermione?_"

Johns flashed him a look of sympathy that Draco rejected absolutely, nearly snarling with the dazed panic of the moment. He didn't want what that sympathy was meant to convey. That fucking _pity_. Because Hermione was _fine_, they just had to find her.

"I don't know, Malfoy, and I'm sorry, but we have to fucking _move_."

They were duelling back to back as they spoke to each other in clipped, angry sentences – Draco taking down a Death Eater with a _diffindo_ and Johns _stupefying_ one and using a _sectumsempra _on another, but the Death Eaters were everywhere in the chaos and the settling dust. Johns yelled again that they had to _go_, and Draco knew they were probably going to die if they didn't start for the doors right bloody _now_. But he wasn't leaving without Hermione. She'd only come on this damned mission because _he_ was going, and there was no way in hell he was going to abandon her now. That wasn't even a possibility. He had to find her. She'd been limping – she couldn't run, and if she was alone then she was screwed, and fear gave his battered body a burst of energy.

But Johns was in better shape than Draco, and he grabbed Draco by the arm, dragging him along bodily, swearing in his rough, uncultured voice in Draco's ear, his wand flashing as he defended them both. Draco dug in his heels though, trying to shake Johns off, swearing right back at him, furious beyond reason, blood dripping down his neck from his head wound, and not at all certain he was thinking straight. In fact, he was rather certain he _wasn't. _But he couldn't leave Hermione.

"Friend! Friend!" came Longbottom's voice in a high shrill, as the boy stumbled back from the tip of Draco's wand, which he'd just had shoved into the hollow of Longbottom's throat. The idiot had come up behind them and put his hand on Draco's shoulder, and nearly gotten himself killed for his troubles. "You fucking –"Draco started, and then decided he didn't care if he'd nearly killed Longbottom. There were more important things going on, and Longbottom was still alive and kicking, so no harm done. Johns had paused at Longbottom's sudden appearance, and Draco asked quickly, "Have you seen Hermione?" Longbottom blinked at him stupidly, and Draco tried again, snatching out and grabbing Longbottom's wrist and snarling it in the boy's face. "_Have you seen Hermione?_"

"I – I –" Longbottom looked stunned, mouth opening and closing like a fish, and Draco wanted to rip his damn head off. "I think I saw her with Ron," Longbottom finished with a stutter, sounding uncertain. Draco clenched his jaw and snorted out a breath through his nostrils.

"Are you sure?"

"This isn't exactly the place for a _conversation!_" Johns yelled, taking out a Death Eater, but not before taking a cutting hex to his side that made the older man hiss and clamp a hand to the wound.

"I – I _think_ so." Longbottom's face was distraught, all furrowed up as he tried to remember if it had been Hermione or not, and Draco wanted to demand what was so _difficult_ about knowing whether it had been Hermione. It either had been, or it hadn't. It was fucking _simple_. "I think so, but – but…I can't be sure. I didn't get a good look at them – there was a Death Eater duelling me at the time."

Draco was about to demand Longbottom think _harder_ and make sure that he was fucking well certain, when five Death Eaters approached the three men in their hoods and masks, and crippled and wounded as they were, Draco, Johns and Longbottom would be no match for the enemy.

"Go!" Johns growled at Draco, shoving at him and then dragging him along, and Draco didn't have much choice but to run – it wouldn't do Hermione much good if he died right now, especially if Longbottom was right and she _was_ with Weasley. Draco trusted Weasley to protect her, he realised with a strange lurch to his stomach, feet stumbling over the rubble on the floor and breath burning in his lungs, head pounding. He knew that Weasley would protect Hermione with his life, if need be, and that trust was something to hold onto. Something very strange and disturbing, but nevertheless, reassuring in the moment.

Longbottom was at Draco's left, and Johns at his right, and the three of them sprinted in a mad dash towards the doors on the other side of the huge room, heads down, _protego _charms up, although whether they would hold against a concerted attack, Draco was doubtful – it was hard to keep a _protego_ strong and solid when running like this. But they got to the door, where all of the Order members seemed to be already, just outside in a defensive formation, holding the doors, and Shacklebolt and Mr Weasley grabbed Draco and Longbottom and thrust them out into Diagon Alley by the scruffs of their necks, and slammed the doors shut.

"Hermione!" Draco found Weasley and grabbed him by the arm, shaking him. "Was she with you?"

But he already knew the fucking answer even as he asked the question, because the person hanging onto Weasley was _Truffle_, not Hermione, and although Draco could see how Longbottom could have gotten the two confused in the chaos of battle, he could have killed Longbottom right then. He dragged himself out of the red of rage and fear to register that Weasley was snapping questions at him and generally devolving into useless panic.

"Is she not with you? I thought she was with you! Oh _fuck_, Hermione? Hermione!" Weasley was yelling, looking around frantically as if he expected Hermione to pop up out of the cobbles of the damned street, and Draco cut off the redhead's ramblings. "I'm going back in for her."

Weasley slammed his mouth shut and stared at Draco. "I'm coming too."

Draco just nodded, turned and made his aching body run back up the steps to the doors, which Kingsley and Johns were laying locking charms on. Half the Order team had already disapparated, and Johns glared at Draco as he approached. "What now?"

"Open the fucking doors."

Shacklebolt blocked his path. "Malfoy, what are you –"

"Hermione's still in there, now let me _fucking past_." His voice broke on the last words, cracked and urgent, and he balled up his fist around his wand and stared Shacklebolt down. "I can't do that. We have to go," Shacklebolt said, regret and pain in every line of his dark face and Draco wanted to _murder_ him. He stepped forward, raised his wand and opened his mouth, fury raging through him, wiping away all coherent thought, and then a hand landed on his arm and he jerked his head up.

"We're not leaving her," Potter said, and then Weasley was flanking Draco's other side, all three of them standing together, and Draco couldn't shake the feeling that the world was tipping on its axis. He and Weasley and Potter, all bound together by Hermione – whether they liked it or not.

"No, Harry. I can't let you go, I'm sorry. If they take her prisoner, we _will_ do everything we can to get her back alive, but right now we have to leave. _Now. _We can't risk losing you for her," Shacklebolt said again, cruelly, but Merlin-damnit, he was right, practically speaking. There was no way that trying to get Hermione out was worth risking Potter's life, in the grand scheme of the war. But Draco didn't care about the damned war, he cared about _her_ and she was still fucking _in there_. Shacklebolt looked at the three boys, his face grave and taut, and Draco shook Potter's hand off his arm, stepped forward, wand pointed down at the ground by his side instead of at Shacklebolt, despite the twitching and itching urge to raise it. Threats wouldn't work with this man.

"Me, then," Draco said sharply, although he didn't know what the hell he could do against a room full of Death Eaters, or if Hermione was still even alive. _Fuck. _Time was ticking away, and every second that passed made her death more certain, and he had never been more fucking scared in his life. The _intensity_ of his fear, of his feelings for her, managed to scare him, and he was shaking with it, and his anger. "Let me in. I have to – I have to…" Draco stuttered to a halt – he had lost the ability to even _speak_ with the force of his vibrating urgency and panic, and he just stared at Shacklebolt, his pale eyes to the older man's dark ones, and he didn't look away, didn't blink. Just held those dark eyes, _pleading _with the man. It was Shacklebolt who dropped his gaze after several seconds that seemed to stretch out over eons, and it was Shacklebolt who caved.

"Harry, Ron, apparate out of here, now. _Go_," he snapped. Potter and Weasley looked furious but they both nodded, Weasley's face red with anger and blood, and Potter dead, stark white. Potter turned to Draco before he went and opened his mouth as if to speak, and then shut it again, looking lost, but Draco understood the boy, for once in their lives. "I'll come back with her, or I won't come back at all, Potter," he said to the other boy with a wry, humourless smile. "Spare you the trouble of trying to kill me, if I fail."

Their gazes connected and understanding snapped between them, and Potter nodded at Draco sharply and then ran down the steps, outside of Gringotts' anti-apparition wards, and snapped away. Weasley lingered a moment longer – just long enough to jab a finger at Draco and say, "I'll fucking resurrect you just to kill you over again if you fail, Malfoy. _Bring her back_." And then he was gone too, and Shacklebolt lifted the locking charms at Draco's request, although he looked like he was already regretting the decision to let Draco in. "Johns and I will wait here, and cover you for as long as we can…"

"Don't put yourself out for us," Draco grated out, the words dry and deathly bitter on his tongue, even though he understood Shacklebolt's decision. Hermione was one girl; one mediocre fighter, not worth risking other peoples' lives for, especially when they were all exhausted or wounded, vastly outnumbered, and all but assured to fail in their attempts to retrieve her. But Draco had to try. He snorted inwardly – what was he now, a fucking _Gryffindor? _Johns and Shacklebolt both stuck their heads in through the doors, scanning for Hermione, and then sent _reductos_ blasting through at the three bunched up Death Eaters tearing towards the now open doors. The explosions ripped chunks out of the floor, puffing up more dust and grit into the air, a screen, a shelter for Draco, and he gripped his wand harder in his hand and went in.

He ran, ignoring the pain, sprinting towards where he _thought _one of the long counters that the goblins usually sat at was, half-blind with all the dust from the _reductos_ that Shacklebolt and Johns were still spitting from their wands as they stood either side of the doors. They were giving him a chance, at least, and he felt a sharp pain of gratitude and anger, because their back up was more than _he_ deserved, but so much less than _she _deserved. He trampled over the bodies of several goblins – unconscious or dead, he didn't know, but their bodies were both firm and horribly squashy under his feet, and he felt sick to his stomach. His mind was racing, impaired by the head wound he'd received – dulled, panicking, slow. If Hermione had hid, if she hadn't been grabbed, then they had a chance. They had a chance to get out.

Draco told himself that over and over as he flattened himself against the end of the counter, and peeked around it, got off a _stupefy_ that actually hit home and toppled a Death Eater, more through dumb luck than any skill at aiming. His heart was racing, pumping like crazy in his chest and Draco felt like it was going to go faster and faster and _faster_ until it just exploded. His head was fucking fuzzy and felt as though it were stuffed with cotton wool, and his hand was fucking shaking, and his back screamed against the counter as he pressed against it, grinding shards and chunks of glass deeper into his flesh. He bit down on his lip hard and tried to control himself, to focus through the pain and exhaustion.

Draco stuck his head out around the corner again, firing off a binding hex, and then _he saw her_ and for a moment he froze and his heart stopped its frantic stampeding, jerking and jolting to a stuttering halt in his chest. His eyes were slammed open wide as he saw her there, and then he slammed back around the corner as a bolt of yellow light flashed at him, his breath rattling in his chest, not thinking about how _close _he had been to being _stupefied_ and failing before he'd even tried – only thinking about _her_, and what he'd seen.

**# # # # # #**

**A Memory Out of Time VI**

**When Hermione crawls to him and shakes and cries in his arms, Draco strokes her hair and tells her that he loves her, and that it will all be all right, in the end, and **_**he's such a fucking liar**_**. Nothing will be all right, and they both know that. The heels of her hands dig into his shoulders as she clings to him, her fingers like broken spider's legs and black and swollen to sausages with bruising, and he ignores the agony her slight weight on his broken body sends roaring to life. He tells her that he loves her, over and over while she shakes with tearless, hitching sobs, and he remembers the first time that he told her he loved her. The first time without the caveat of an**_** 'I think'**_** tacked on to it.**

**Had had returned from his mother's, wrung out, control hanging by a frayed thread, to find Karkaroff's people in his cellar. And he'd nearly lost it on Lupin, and Hermione had taken him up to her room for the first time, and he'd followed her like a lost child, anger and grief all balanced on a knife's edge. She had slipped her arms around him and told him that she'd loved him, and it was then that it had come shuddering out of him for the first time. **_**I love you **_**he had said into the tangled, suffocating mass of her hair, holding her so tightly his fingers left bruises in her flesh that didn't fade for several weeks. **_**I love you**_**, he'd repeated himself, urgent and meaning it more than he'd ever meant anything, and terrified by the intensity of it, breaking apart under the strain of **_**everything**_** and filled with self-loathing, and crying like a fucking ponce into her hair.**

**He tells her he loves her again, now, in the moment, and the heels of her hands are vices on his shoulders, making the dislocated one scream out with sharp fire, and he bites his swollen tongue so hard it splits and blood fills his mouth. More blood. More blood; they are coated in it already and so he doesn't care when it sputters and dribbles out of his mouth and down his chin as he repeats those three words to her, like she wants him to. Needs him to. They are painted in blood, fresh and old, and as he has since he first started falling in love with Hermione, he thinks about how her blood looks exactly the fucking same as his. Their blood is black in the dark, tasting like iron filings and life and death at once, when she kisses him and the taste fills both their mouths.**

**He doesn't tell her he's sorry anymore; it only seems to upset her, to distress her, and he won't hurt her any more than she is already hurting. Draco waits until she has slipped into the unconsciousness that isn't really sleep, not really, and then he whispers it in her ear over and over like a penance, listening to her heart beat and her breath whistle and rasp. Tells her that he loves her and he's sorry for it. That he's sorry that he failed her. That he's sorry for everything, and that he wishes that Voldemort had killed him, instead of taking his hand. That he wishes they had left him to bleed out on the Manor floor instead of staunching the blood pumping from his wrist. Because then she might not be here – she might be safe. Everything might have gone so differently, and he is so, so fucking sorry.**

**Draco tells her this quietly in the dark, the stone chill and hard beneath them, her whimpering half-delirious from her injuries in her unconsciousness, and he biting back on the pain roiling through every inch of him, trying not to fall asleep, despite how tired and weak he is. He can't protect her, he can't stop it from happening, but he refuses to awake to the sound of her screams, or to simply find her gone. He has to know, he has to watch over her, even if he can't do anything to save her he has to bear witness to it. He has to be aware of every second, because if they live through this Draco will need to pay penance for every scream that bursts from her raw throat, every hurt that is inflicted upon her.**

**When Hermione wakes too soon, he thinks maybe she half-remembers him talking to her, and apologising, because she tells him in a cracked, shattered voice, the heels of her broken hands sliding over the heavy stubble on his face, that she doesn't regret anything. She tries to reassure him, and Merlin damn him, he believes her. She says that if they had never…then she could still be here; she would just be here alone. And she asks him if it's horribly selfish and monstrous of her that she's glad he's here with her, and Draco pulls her to him, burying his face in the crook of her neck, the blood-matted mass of her hair, and tells her **_**no**_**, that there was nowhere else he would choose to be. He thinks with bitter humour, as his hand tries to find patches of unwounded skin on her back to stroke and soothe, that he has picked a fine time to turn bloody selfless.**

**She has rubbed off on him, in more ways than just the filthy one. The old Draco Malfoy would never have told Hermione Granger that he would rather be here with her rather than safe and free, because he **_**wouldn't**_** have. He would have never gone back into the bank for her, he wouldn't have **_**cared**_**, and he wouldn't be lying here in half-delirious agony right now, like some stupid fucking **_**useless **_**martyr. But that isn't what hurts right now – his fate is not what he cares about. It is hers that makes him hate himself.**

"**I don't regret anything," she tells him again, like it's so **_**important**_** that he knows, urgent desperation in her thin, rasping voice, sprawled over his lap so they are both in pain, together. Together. Draco closes his eyes in the dark and presses his bloodied lips to her forehead, whispering against the skin, only half a lie, "I don't either."**

**# # # # # #**

Of War VII

She screamed and fought and lashed out, anger and terror blinding her to the pain, ignoring that fact that they'd ripped her wand away, disarmed her. She had her teeth and her nails still, and she flailed and punched wildly and bit down on an arm that tasted like filth hard enough to make blood well into her mouth, and they were _laughing_ at her. That enraged her, _hurt_ her, more than anything else.

"It's Potter's friend –"

"Are you sure?"

She was twisted to the ground by her arm ripped up behind her back and pushed down, and a booted foot stamped hard on her spine and she arched and buckled and screamed beneath it. It held her still, kept her there, her bloodied hands scrabbling at the ground, fingernails clawing and tearing away as she tried thoughtlessly and uselessly to _get away_. A hand grabbed her braid and yanked her head back, an unfamiliar face with pale eyes and a cruel snarling mouth loomed in her vision.

"It's Granger, all right," the wizard's rough, low voice said, and she spat in his face, a gobbet of blood and phlegm and the face jerked back from hers, voice swearing and cursing angrily, and a hand smacked across her cheek and pain snapped through her. "Fucking _bitch_, filthy _fucking_ mudblood_, _I swear to Merlin _you'll pay for that._" The back of the wizard's hand struck her face again and pain bloomed like fire through her cheek and jaw and neck and she cried out despite herself.

"Best not kill her," another voice said, and terror rushed through her making her limbs weak and watery, and she _hated_ them. "She'll make a pretty little prize. Wonder what Potter would do to get her back…"

"The Dark Lord will be pleased," another voice said all filled with hateful, smug triumph, and she gurgled something unintelligible, a slew of hate and anger and defiance, and they laughed at her again and the foot left her back. She threw herself forward, crawling, scrabbling, a crippled mouse trying to escape a circle of snarling, hissing cats. She didn't have a chance. She was dragged up to her feet by her hair and her scalp screamed at her – she put her weight on her feet to relieve the pain, but then her broken ankle gave way beneath her in a wash of agony, and her vision blacked out for a few seconds at the fire that rattled through her body.

She stumbled on her feet, still held half up by the fierce grip on her hair, the Death Eaters' words washing over her as they decided the best way to get her out – through the doors, past the Order which could be laying in wait, with back up, or out the ceiling, and apparate from the roof? She couldn't make much sense of any of it – her left ear was ringing from one of the backhanded blows to her face, and she was dizzy and nauseous and all filled up with mind-blanking terror. She knew what it would mean if they took her. Torture in all its different forms – and her skin crawls and she wants to die – and then if she was lucky, death. She refused to contemplate Harry risking his life to save her, as part of some sick deal – Hermione didn't want him to die for her. She wasn't worth it.

And then explosions rocked the building and she screamed with fright and terror and a growing _hope_ as she saw where the explosions were coming from – the doors, where the rest of the Order were. And then she realised she didn't _want_ them to come back for her, because they were outnumbered and outclassed, and she didn't want them to die. But then she saw a flash of white-blond hair all streaked with red through the clouds of dust from the explosions. She saw _him_, and _no one else_ and she cursed Draco viciously under her breath, knowing immediately what had happened and hating him for it. He had come back for her _alone_, and she didn't want him to get caught and killed too, and she felt sick and she shook all over, helpless, just hanging in the Death Eaters' hands.

The Death Eaters exchanged hexes and stunners with Draco for a few moments while Hermione watched helplessly, her hands balled up into fists, swaying on her feet. There was no _way_ he could get to her; there was no way he could save her, and now the Death Eaters' had him pinned down and he was all but trapped in here with her. _What the hell was he doing?_ He had always laughed at what he called Gryffindor nobility, their drive to achieve martyrdom – he had always said that Slytherins were smarter than that, so what the _fuck_ was he doing right now? She couldn't breathe and her body _hurt_ and her heart was sick, sicksick_sick_. She didn't want him to die for her. The _idiot_, the utter _stupid prat_. Why did he have to pick _now_ to decide to emulate Ron and Harry's foolhardy impulsiveness?

And then the Death Eaters seemed to grow weary of exchanging fire with Draco, and one stepped up to Hermione, pressing her wand tip against Hermione's temple. "You want your little dirty filthy ally to die, _traitor?_" the witch asked in a clear call, a cruel smile to her lips, and Hermione whimpered behind clamped together lips.

"She's too _valuable_ to you," Draco's voice came rough across the room, filled with something achingly painful. "You won't kill her."

"Why'd they send _you_ in for her, Malfoy? Don't care if you die, huh? Why do you fight for them?" Sudden fury in the Death Eater's voice, and her wand jabbed harder into Hermione's temple.

There was a long silence from Draco's end.

"Come out and drop your wand, Malfoy." The Death Eater regained her calm, a little, her tone cold and contained. "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way, but either way you haven't got a fucking chance in hell, and you may be a fucking _traitor_ but you're not an idiot, and you know it."

Still silence from Draco, and Hermione knew he was desperately trying to formulate a plan – she knew him. She could picture what he looked like, crouched against the end of the counter there, his forehead furrowed and face _cold_. Determined and calculating. And then she heard him snarl _Avada Kedavra_ so fast it was a slur of sound, and a wizard near her collapsed and the Death Eaters snarled and shuffled uneasily. Hermione moaned and bit her tongue – she had seen him briefly – a flash of him – as he'd spun out of cover to cast the Unforgivable, and he hadn't looked cold and calculating – the lines of his white, bloodied face had been stark and desperate. He'd lost it – lost that ruthless control that had kept him alive for so long, and that scared Hermione, a chill that seeped into her very bones.

"_You_ _fucking filthy __**traitorous bastard!**_" The Death Eater snarled, and dragged in a rasping, angry breath. "Drop your wand now or I'll make _her_ pay for your refusal."

Hermione shook with fear, but she opened her mouth and screamed, "Don't you _dare_, Draco! Don't you fucking _dare!_ Run – get out of here, don't –" A fist smashed across her face and she choked on her words and on blood, spitting the blood out and feeling a tooth wobble in her gums. God, her parents would be so _angry_ about that, she thought disconnectedly, still reeling from the blow.

"What makes you think I _care_," Draco spat, trying to sound contemptuous and unconcerned by the thought of them hurting Hermione, but there was a tremble to his voice, a tightness to it, that gave him away. And out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw the Death Eater smile, and then the woman spat, "_Crucio,_" and everything disappeared beneath the haze of pain. Like her skin and muscle was being flayed from her bones, like her skull was being crushed in a vice, like every inch of her, inside and out, was on roaring, consuming fire. She was vaguely aware that she was seizing, her body jerking and flailing, teeth clattering together, only held up by the iron grip on her hair, but everything else was just _pain_.

**# # # # # #**

**A Memory Out of Time VII**

**She remembers every moment that they have been safe and together, and every time that Draco has held her – wrapped in his arms, all tangled together and locked in each other, the way that they always do. Always touching in bed, always all wound up and bound together, in the softness of blankets and mattress, and the tickle of his hair clean and soft on her forehead, his hand strong and elegant. She remembers all the time he has whiled away in kissing her – in anger, or confusion, or hungry, desperate need, or sorrow, or gentle tenderness. She remembers the slide of his hands over her skin, the lave of his tongue over her nipples, the feeling of being filled up by his cock as he thrusts into her. She pictures the colours of his eyes, and the different shades and expressions of them, and remembers the look in them such a short time ago as he told her he couldn't live without her, and asked her to marry him.**

**Hermione remembers all the good things, drifting through her mind in a happy, warm daze. She thinks about everything wonderful, and everything safe, and everything that is home – that is her and him, and Harry and Ron, and everyone else. But mostly she thinks of him. Mostly she thinks of Draco Malfoy, and all the happy, precious memories that they have woven together, since he turned up at Godric's Hollow. She sees it all playing out on a reel in her head, like her face is dipped in the cool shock of a pensieve; everything so clear, so **_**brilliant.**_

**She is only vaguely aware that she is convulsing and choking in her own blood on the stone floor, and he is crying over her, trying to roll her over so the blood doesn't drown her, his tears splashing hot and stinging on her face as he apologises, over and over and **_**over.**_

**# # # # # #**

Of War IX

Hermione's wails cut through the echoing room – not screams, not yells, but gurgling, animalistic noises of agony that sounded like they _tore_ from her throat bleeding and ragged, and Draco stuffed his knuckles into his mouth and moaned softly as he listened. His body was wracked with tension, muscles cramping and horror grabbing him and shaking him like a rag doll, and he couldn't block the noise out. It was awful, it was horrible, and it just kept going, and going, and going – hoarse, strangled shrieks and wails, and awful, bubbling, choking sounds, and Draco swore over and over as he tried to figure out what to do and came up with nothing, his eyes clenched shut and his teeth bruising his knuckles as he bit down. And then the doors boomed shut and he jerked his eyes up and realised that Shacklebolt and Johns had gone. Left them. And rather than the rage Draco had expected to well up at the realisation, a tired hopelessness came over him instead.

"Stop! _Stop!_" he screamed out, and Hermione's wails trailed down to weak, shaky sobbing, undercut by whimpers that sounded like they came from a mortally wounded animal.

"Why should we?" The witch's voice came, and Draco gritted his teeth.

"I'll surrender." It physically hurt to say that, but he didn't have any damned choice, did he? His head was hurting like shit, and he couldn't think of anything that would save them both, and he was beginning to think that Shacklebolt had been right. He'd been a fucking _idiot_ to come in after her, but…he couldn't leave her. There was a muttered discussion between the Death Eaters, and from what he overheard over Hermione's wounded, shivering cries, they decided in the end that Voldemort would be pleased to have Draco – to make an example of him. Draco crouched there and prayed to a god he didn't believe in, to the fates, to _anything _that might be listening that please might they get out of this alive, because he knew very fucking well what happened when Voldemort made an example of someone, and he was _afraid_.

"Show yourself, then," The witch who appeared to be in charge called out, and Draco stood, exposing himself, trusting that they wouldn't change their minds and kill him outright. And then his stomach wrenched and his chest _hurt_, as he stared sickened at the scene in front of him. Hermione was loosely surrounded by Death Eaters, sagging onto her knees on the floor, only held up by a hand fisted around her braid, her head dragged back slightly and her eyes glazed over, a witch holding a wand to her head. Blood dripped down her chin, her face was already swelling and bruising horribly from the blows she'd taken, and her arms hung limp at her sides and twitched and shivered with the aftershocks of the _Cruciatus_. Her eyes rolled to him, one already swollen half closed, and she sputtered blood when she tried to speak, the sound a desperate croak.

"Don't. Draco, don't. _Don't, don'tdon't__**do**__–_" The hoarse plea was cut off when a Death Eater backhanded her across the face, and she screamed and Draco's breath caught in his throat and he choked on it, and on the impotency of his hatred.

"Shut up, filth," the masked Death Eater told Hermione in a voice Draco didn't recognise, and everything took on a dreamlike quality as Hermione spat at the Death Eater, and he hit her again, and again, and she was crying and still screaming her damned defiance at the wizard, and the witch holding the wand pointed at Hermione's head said to Draco, "Drop your wand or Smythe here'll keep going, _traitor_," and Draco shuddered and shut his eyes, and then snapped them open.

"Stop it, _stop it! Get your __**fucking**__ hands off her,_" he snarled, voice trembling, and the tableau froze, and he held his arm out to the side, gripping the butt of his wand between finger and thumb, and dropped it to the floor with a clatter. "I surrender. I fucking _surrender_, you _bastards_," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt and hatred. They laughed at him, rough and hard and full of malice, and Hermione was sobbing and shaking her head _no_, staring at him with wounded, horrified firewhiskey eyes. Draco kept his eyes locked on Hermione as he walked towards them all – looked at her and only her, and he realised full well that he had probably just thrown away his life for _nothing_, but he had made the only choice he _could_ make and not hate himself.

Hermione just stared at him with open devastation, and he could see she was shaping his name with her swollen, split lips, and shaking her head in a vehement _no_ at what he'd done, her limbs still quivering from the _Cruciatus_. He was two metres away when he said her name, full of apology. "Hermione." He didn't see anything but her, hanging there like a broken puppet, and he blamed himself for what she was going to go through. It was his fault. Somehow. Somehow, it was his fault, and he accepted that – welcomed it, even. "I'm sorry." The Death Eaters laughed uproariously at him, and he _hated_ them all but it was easy to ignore them. "Herm–"

And then it wasn't so easy to ignore the Death Eaters. A fist struck his face, and he spun and his hand flew up to clutch his jaw as pain exploded there, and another fist hit him in the small of his back and he staggered on his feet. Another, and another, the thudding explosive pain of fists driving into his battered flesh, and he couldn't even _defend_ himself. He just fell to his knees, ducking his head to try to protect his face, and then a boot landed in his stomach and the air whooshed out of him and he clutched his abdomen, hunching over and gasping for air that wouldn't come. Another blow – the kick of a steel-capped boot to his shoulder, and a grinding cry of pain wrenched from his lips and he was driven forward, flat on his face in the rubble.

He was a mass of pain – fists and feet driving into him, and he instinctively curled into a ball and wrapped his arms around his head, chin to his chest and knees up to his stomach, trying to protect himself as much as possible. It hurt it _hurt it hurt it hurt_, and he could hear Hermione screaming, but she wasn't screaming in pain, she was screaming for them to stop hurting him, and that was good, he thought vaguely through the pain. It was good that she wasn't being hurt. They had turned on him instead, like he had hoped. And then someone snarled, "_Crucio,_" and his last coherent thought before he began seizing with agony, was of his birthday.

**# # # # # #**

_Belonging and Birthdays VI_

_The war went on. _

_His father was still out there somewhere, and whether or not his mother had chosen Draco in the end, she still loved his father and that couldn't help but taint things between them. He still didn't know what was going to happen after the war was over, if they even __**won**__, because the Order couldn't make promises about his freedom. They could only try, and so Draco was acutely aware his future still could involve a cell in Azkaban, instead of marriage to Hermione Jean Granger. And the mission to Gringotts was tomorrow, and he wasn't ready for it – none of them were – and they were all worried and tangled up in nervous knots. But today was his birthday, and Hermione had baked him a cake – with sprinkles on it, she'd pointed out with absurd pride – and they'd sung him Happy Birthday standing around the table, Weasley singing some rude Muggle version Dean had taught him about Draco smelling like a monkey. _

_And Draco had blown out the candles, and at Lovegood's insistence, like a child, made a wish – and he refused to tell anyone what it was, but Hermione knew, and he thought Nymphadora and the rest of the older Order members probably could guess too. Everyone was grinning at him, seizing the excuse to celebrate, as they had yesterday at Weasley's wedding. Speaking of whom, Weasley was stuffing his gob with cake already – and Lovegood was babbling something ridiculous at him about birthday luck, which he tried to ignore. Then something jabbed him hard in the side and Draco jumped and turned a scowl on Hermione, who stood there with a broomstick in one hand and Potter's invisibility cloak in the other, neither of which had been there a moment ago, he was certain of it. Draco's scowl faded and a funny feeling came over him, muddling up his stomach._

"_This is your serious present," Hermione said softly, with a little, slightly shy smile, holding up the items. "I know it's not much, but…I thought we could go for a fly, today…"_

_Draco's throat felt all choked up suddenly, and he couldn't speak, just stared at Hermione dumbly. He knew how much she hated flying, and she knew how much he loved it, how being on a broomstick made him feel __**alive**__ and __**free**__. And she pushed up on tiptoes and swayed into him, kissed him long and hard on the mouth in front of everyone, and for a perfect moment, Draco forgot about the war, and his family, and the possibility of Azkaban looming in the far-off future. Hermione pulled away, eyes rich firewhiskey and sparking with amber as she grinned up at him, saying playful and teasing, "If you drop me to my death, Harry will avenge me."_

"_I'll try my very best not to kill you. I'd hate to have to murder Potter in self-defence," Draco promised mock-earnestly, happiness bubbling uncontrollably up in his chest, because the war wasn't over, but it was his birthday, and Hermione was smiling at him with a broomstick in hand – and Weasley was stuffing himself with cake, and Potter was canoodling disgustingly with Ginny Weasley, and Angelina Johnson and the Weasley twins were distressing Mrs Weasley with their open mutual affections, and Nymphadora was feeding baby Teddy, their hair a matching green, and – and – they were all so __**bloody**__**irritating**__, and yet…Draco realised that this was what __**home**__ felt like._

**# # # # # #**

**A Memory Out of Time VIII**

**It could have begun at the Manor, when she was being tortured, but Draco thinks he probably would have let almost anyone escape, given the chance. Especially a girl. No, that hadn't been specific to Hermione. He doesn't think that was **_**really **_**where it all began properly, although he knows that is ****what **_**she**_ **thinks, and maybe that is where it began, for **_**her**_**. **

**But Draco**** thinks**** that it all really**__**began for **_**him**_** when he first walked through the front door of the Godric's Hollow house, worn to the bone and frightened as hell – more for his mother than himself, although he was plenty worried for himself, too. And he had blinked in the bright light of the foyer, the warmth of the place sinking into him, squinting about at all the faces, and seeing the shock and revulsion there. He had curled his lip and sneered at them all, like he was still above them, **_**superior**_**, despite crawling to them for their aid. He had **_**hated**_** them all, and his arm had hurt like hell, and he had been weak from lack of food and sleep, and then he had seen **_**her**_**.**

**In a doorway near the back of the foyer, Draco had seen hollow amber-brown eyes set in a white, shocked face that was framed by wild dark hair. Her mouth had hung open, and her thin hand had pressed to her chest as she'd shrunk back from him, swaying on her feet. **_**Granger**_**, he had thought, and he remembers that he had felt the **_**strangest**_** rush of relief and gratitude that she was alive. Oh, Draco had hated her too, in the moments following that initial reaction – despised her, in fact, because he'd lost his **_**fingers**_** for her – but his first instinctive thought was that he was glad she had survived. **

**Yes. Draco thinks it **_**really **_**began then; there in the foyer of the Godric's Hollow house, when he had seen Hermione, and for some unfathomable reason, had been happy that she was still alive. **

**He just wishes it wasn't going to **_**end**_** here. He supposes he should take some small comfort from the fact that they are together, but he doesn't, not really. He wishes it were him, alone.**

**# # # # # #**

_**Fin.**_

_Coming soon…the sequel to The Risk-Reward Ratio:_

_**The Just-World Fallacy**_

_They say that people get what they deserve. That bad things happen to bad people. That the guilty will always get their just deserts. They speak of Karma and Fate, and all those pretty, meaningless words._

_They say that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. That people can adapt to anything, given time. They say that the universe doesn't give you more than you can handle, as if it somehow knows. _

_They say, that everything turns out okay in the end, and if it isn't okay, it's not the end._

_She hopes that last one is true, because she knows for a fact that the others are not; knows it right down in her bones – the heavy, leaden truth of experience. But that last one, well… Hermione is waiting to find out._

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **So… ::scratches head:: Err, ah, sorry about the kind-of-cliffhanger ending :D But I really couldn't figure out any other way to write the ending that was a fitting and climactic conclusion. It just seemed like the mission was the best, most natural place to conclude this part of Hermione and Draco's story, before I continue the remainder of it in the sequel.

So, what did you think about the chapter? It's been a while since I wrote really full-on action scenes, with people getting injured and such, so…what did you think of them? Did they turn out okay? Realistic and gory enough? :p I was also going for some real intense emotiveness in this chapter, this being the finale – and I hope I achieved that goal, to some degree at least. My biggest aim in writing, apart from general reader enjoyment, is to make readers feel _all the feels_, lol.

Now…onwards to _The Just World Fallacy_, the first chapter of which will hopefully be up in a week or two – I may take several days to decompress before I start seriously working on it :)

**Please review!**


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